A Lady Of A Certain Age
by Lampito
Summary: The Winchesters help an elderly lady who's been hexed by a jealous neighbour. She's terribly grateful, and a little sad that all she can do for them is make them lunch in return. What they really need, she thinks, is a good woman, to look after them. They don't have a good woman, but they have something that might just be up to the job. COMPLETE. Now with Special Bonus Feature!
1. Prologue

Aaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaaargh! The plot bunnies! The plot bunnies! They will not stop! They are TERMINATOR BUNNIES! Seriously, this one jumped out of a dog food hopper. What the hell was it doing in there? And it WOULD NOT SHUT UP until I wrote something down. Sometimes that helps. Of course, sometimes it just encourages the fluffy little bastards...

**DISCLAIMER:** They're not mine. Seriously, if they were mine, do you think I'd be messing around in Real Life? I'd sell them into slavery, and retire to an island somewhere on the proceeds.

**TITLE:** A Lady Of A Certain Age

**RATING:** T. Because this fic is produced on a processing line that also processes products containing Dean Winchester.

**SUMMARY: **The Winchesters help an elderly lady who's being hexed by a jealous neighbour. She's terribly grateful, and is regretful that she can't do anything more in return other than make them lunch. What they really need, she thinks to herself, is a good woman to look after them. They don't have a good woman, but they may already have something that will do the job.

**FAULT:** I blame The Denizens who are 1) forever encouraging me to give various fanfic tropes the Lampito treatment, and 2) by their own admission, partial to a bit of H/C, with a side of fluff and schmoop. May all your house plants turn into plot bunnies and nibble on your neurons incessantly when you wish to concentrate upon something else, you fiends!

* * *

**Prologue**

"I really cannot thank you enough for your help, boys," the elderly lady smiled. "Cream with that, dear?"

"Yes, please, Mrs Finton," beamed Dean, as she set a steaming slice of apple pie in front of him.

"We're just glad we could help," Sam told her.

"Poor Hetty," she shook her head sadly, "Poor, poor Hetty. We were neighbours for fifty years, you know. And I thought we were friends. We talked to each other about everything. Or so I thought. How could she be so resentful, so envious, and not just talk to me? Why would she resort to black witchcraft? I would happily have given her my recipe!"

"Some people just don't think like that," Sam said of the witch who had hexed Alexandra Finton with increasing nastiness for more than a year, simply out of jealousy at the effusive praise that Alexandra's light and fluffy angel food cake always received at their monthly book club meetings.

"Her vol-au-vents were legendary," Alexandra went on regretfully, "Everyone always told her what a talent she had. Mr Finton never stopped praising her cooking. Puff pastry made from scratch is an art form, Mr Winchester, an art form requiring the most careful of practice and application of effort!"

"Er, so I've been led to believe," Sam agreed politely.

"If only she had used her talent for good," Alexandra sighed mournfully. "Her profiteroles would make an angel weep, Mr Winchester, that's how good they were."

"Certainly, she could probably have made at least one cock his head and stare disconcertingly," conceded Dean.

"I would never in a million years have suspected her," the elderly widow said regretfully as her eyes raked Sam's shirt. "The elbow's just about gone through on that one," she noted, "If you like, I can darn it for you before you leave."

"Oh, no, that's not at all necessary," Sam assured her, "Lunch was absolutely wonderful, and more than enough."

"And you're missing a button on yours," she noted sadly of Dean.

"It's all right, Mrs Finton," Dean told her, "If the worst we get is the occasional lost button, we count that as a win."

She had kept her own counsel after that, feeding them until they claimed to be full, but she couldn't help but gaze at them a little sadly. There was something about Hunters that made her sad: they did a job, a hard, thankless job, that injured them, damaged them, and mostly killed them before they saw forty.

She had seen many Hunters in her time, fighting the good fight, and it broke her heart a little every time. People who gave their lives to their work, living on the edge of society by a combination of petty graft and their wits. These two made her think of two boys, who might be grown men, but needed a good woman to take care of the things they would never give priority to, or even worry about. Someone who would make sure that their clothes were mended, and they ate properly, and slept enough, and made sure that their wounds were treated, and illnesses taken seriously. Why, the older one was snuffling, surreptitiously wiping his nose on his sleeve (the button was gone off that, too), but clearly not looking after himself.

They needed looking after, she thought to herself. They deserve better than what this life has given them.

She pressed more pie on them as they left, and the older one brightened considerably at that.

"What a lovely car you have," she noted, "Mr Finton was a great appreciator of older automobiles. He would have loved to see this one. It's in beautiful condition."

"She's my number one girl, my Baby," Dean grinned, patting the hood with pride... and love. "She's been the closest thing we have to a home, this old girl."

"You'll have to excuse my brother," Sam rolled his eyes, "He has an unnatural relationship with the car."

"You'll have to excuse my brother," echoed Dean, "He's an ungrateful assho... I mean, he's an ungrateful wretch, who doesn't know how lucky we are to have her." He patted the car again. "She's even saved our as - ... saved our skins on a couple of occasions," he went on, "She's been damaged or wrecked, but kept us alive."

"How wonderful," Alexandra smiled. She laid a hand reverently on the wing mirror. "And you look after her so well. No wonder she looks after you."

"Well, we'd best be on our way," said Sam, "Thank you for lunch, Mrs Finton."

"Thank you for the most marvellous pie I think I've ever eaten in this state," sighed Dean happily, "Will you marry me, Mrs Finton?"

"If I thought you'd let me darn your shirt I might consider it," she laughed, "Because Lord knows, you two boys need somebody to look after you."

"We manage just fine, Mrs Finton," Sam reassured her.

Nonetheless, she gave the car a final pat. "You look after them, my dear," she said fondly.

"She always does, Mrs Finton, she always does," Dean smiled brilliantly. Then, with a final wave and a honk, they were gone.

Alexandra Finton watched them go. They were happy in the knowledge that an evil witch had been stopped. And while she was sad about her friend Hetty, she knew that it had to be done. Yes, they'd taken care of an evil witch.

But Alexandra Finton wasn't stupid; she hadn't given them any clues at all that she was a long-time practitioner of the Craft. As a white witch, she was not given to ostentatious display or arrogant workings anyway. Such things were... unseemly.

She'd been very discreet in the way she'd stretched out her Talent to _look_ at the car. What she saw...

She shuddered. Blood. Pain. Anger. Fear. Loss. Those boys had seen so much, and their car, their home, their constant companion, had been witness to it. But there were other memories, too, happy ones. Good-natured bickering, pranking, times when she was the roof over their head, the bed that offered them comfort when nothing else was to be had, the solid and familiar shape under them as they sat and talked or watched the stars. There were even some decidedly risqué memories, and she smiled a little. Who was she to be a prude?

That Dean, he lavished care and attention on his car – on her. Looked after her, cared for her, as though she was a member of his family. And in a way, she was. It was typical, just typical, of a single young man, let alone a Hunter, that he took better care of his car than he did of himself.

A couple of slices of pie just didn't seem like adequate gratitude for what Hunters did. For what the Winchesters did.

Thoughtfully, she returned to her kitchen, and began to clear up.

It was when her eye fell on the napkin that Dean had used to wipe his mouth (and then his nose, after his brother pulled a most disgruntled face after the sleeve-wiping incident) that the idea came to her.

With a smile, she set the napkin aside, and began to clear the table.

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Joining You For Apple Pie After The Lunch Of Life!*

*If you're going to deploy the whipped cream with extreme prejudice, please put down a drop sheet first.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Sam had another job lined up for them, but wanted to check some info in Bobby's library, so they set a course for Singer Salvage.

"Well, one witch ganked, one crazy old lady saved from the Vengeful Vol-au-vent Maker," noted Sam.

"She wasn't crazy," objected Dean, "I wasn't kidding about the pie. It was magnificent!"

"She patted the car," Sam pointed out, "And she talked to it."

"Her," Dean corrected him, wiping his nose on his sleeve again. "She patted her, and talked to her."

"Exactly," Sam humphed. "Anyone who pats a car, and talks to it, is crazy. Don't do that, it's gross."

"I talk to her," Dean stated promptly.

"The prosecution rests, Your Honour," said Sam smugly.

"You know what your problem is, Sam?" Dean began, "You can't appreciate this car for what she is. She's a magnificent feat of engineering, she's a work of art, she's got a killer body and a heart of steel..."

" 'She' is a piece of machinery, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes.

"She's our home, Sam," his big brother reminded him. He snatched at the corner of Sam's shirt, and tried to wipe his nose with it.

"GAAAAH! Oh, that's gross!" snarled Sam, snatching his shirt away with a good dose of Bitchface #13™ (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust). "So, do you talk to Bobby's house, too?" Sam asked tartly. "Tell it what a lovely porch it has? Stroke the walls lovingly when nobody's looking? Give the door frames a tender caress on the way through?"

"It's not the same thing!" Dean protested. "Bobby's house is a home-away-from-home, a practically-home, a to-all-intents-and-purposes home, but it's not ours! There's things this car has done, and we've done in this car, that make it home in the way Bobby's isn't."

Understanding dawned on Sam's face. "Oh, okay," he nodded. "That makes sense. Yeah, I get it now."

"You do?" Dean looked relieved.

"Totally," Sam affirmed, "Now that you've explained it." He paused. "Bobby's house can't be home, because..."

"Because we grew up in this car," Dean nodded and sniffled once more.

"Because you've never had sex in Bobby's house," Sam corrected him.

"Hah! Just goes to show how much you know," Dean grinned smugly.

"What?" Sam glared at Dean with a horrified Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual). "You never did!"

"I totally did," Dean grinned even more widely. "While you were at Stanford."

"I don't want to hear the details," Sam growled.

"More than one girl, actually," Dean waved a hand airily. "I know how to be discreet when I want to."

"Dean..."

"One night Bobby came back home earlier than I'd anticipated..."

"Dean..."

"And we were just going to do it in the car, but it was really cold, so we climbed up the drainpipe and in the window – she was a gymnast..."

"Dean..."

"And Bobby's a light sleeper, the guy's a Hunter after all, so to keep the noise down we gagged each other, but that was kind of hot..."

"DEAN!" yelled Sam, with a concentrated Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk). "Not! Interested!"

"Okay, okay," Dean subsided. There was silence for a few minutes.

"We did it on your bed."

"Dean..."

"The linen has been changed since then, obviously."

"Dean..."

"Although if you turn the mattress and look at it, you can probably still see a stain that's shaped like..."

"Jerk."

They arrived at Singer Salvage in the middle of the night as they had so often before. Bobby met them at the door, with a gruff "Get inside, ya idjits," before heading back to bed.

"It's probably not a bad thing for you to rest up a bit," Sam suggested, as they got ready for bed themselves. "You're snuffling like a bloodhound tracking underwater."

"I'm fine," came Dean's automatic response, as he wiped his nose on his sleeve again. "It's just a sniffle."

"The last time you had 'just a sniffle', it turned into bronchitis," Sam reminded him.

"I probably caught it from you," Dean said dismissively, shaking out Jimi the half-Hellhound's blanket for the dog to sleep on. "Eating all that rabbit food, your immune system can't possibly deal with any diseases, so I caught myxomatosis from you."

Sam gave up. If Dean was going to go all Cleopatra, Queen of Denial, about it, then he'd just have to wait and see what happened. If his brother was going to get sick, it was easier to wait until he felt like crap, then berate him into submission.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Dean," Sam shook his brother's shoulder, "Dean, wake up!"

"Wsflgrl?" went Dean, blinking blearily up at Sam. "Whaaa? Hoomf?"

"Dean," Sam said evenly, "Get dressed and come downstairs right now."

"Whumf?" Dean sniffed, and tried again. "Why? We got in late last night, Sam, lemme sleep. You're the one who said I need some downtime."

"Yeah, but, well, you really, really need to see this," insisted Sam.

"Oh, God," groaned Dean, sitting up and getting out of bed, "If you've woken me up to show me that you've got a picture of Jesus on a piece of burnt toast, I will end you."

"No need to rush, then," shrugged Sam, turning to leave. "I guess it's not that important. It's only about your car..."

Dean was flying down the stairs before you could say 'shameless anthropomorphising'.

"What about my car?" he demanded, storming into the kitchen, where Sam was calmly pouring himself coffee. "Sam? What about my car? What's happened with my car? What's..." He glanced anxiously out the window to where he parked the Impala the night before.

Except...

"Where's my car? !" he yelped frantically, "Where the hell is my car? What the fuck happened to my car, Sam?"

"Calm down, ya idjit," Bobby admonished, coming into the kitchen.

"Calm down? Calm down?" shrieked Dean. "My car has vanished, and you want me to CALM DOWN?"

"Dean!" snapped Sam, "Your car has not disappeared!"

"Then, where is my car, Sam?" Dean demanded, "Sam, where is my car?"

Bobby sighed resignedly. "Come with me," he instructed. He headed back to the living room, Dean anxiously on his heels, muttering imprecations against the gods, the fates, and anybody who had anything to do with the apparent disappearance of his car.

"If I find some asshole demon has messed with my car, I swear, I will open a gateway to Hell, and tear it apart from the inside out," he growled, "I will make Alistair look like a Swedish masseuse. I will make Lucifer look like Mother Theresa. I will..."

"Ahem," Bobby cleared his throat pointedly.

Sitting on the sofa in the living room was a middle-aged woman. She was robustly yet athletically built, and wore a pair of chic square-framed glasses, and was dressed in a well-tailored black skirt suit of an older vintage. As Dean came in, she rose, and smiled at him.

"Good morning, Dean," she greeted him, moving to gather him into a fond hug. "Did you sleep well?"

"Meeeeep!" went Dean, too surprised to resist.

"Dean," Bobby began in a patient tone, "I'd offer to introduce you, but really, this... lady doesn't need any introduction. Not to you."

When Dean looked blankly from Bobby to the woman, she offered him a doting smile.

"Of course we know each other! Very well, I might add, but, we've never been formally introduced." She clasped Dean's hand between both of hers. "I am Miss Impala Chevrolet, but I hope that you will call me Kaz."

"Meeeeep!" went Dean.

"Now then," Kaz went on, in a warm but business-like tone, "Why don't I make you some breakfast? Something involving bacon, I'm guessing?"

"Um, bacon would be... great," replied Dean faintly.

"Excellent!" She clapped her hands briskly. "Oh, and Dean..."

"Um... yes?" he replied tentatively.

"Why don't you go upstairs and put some pants on? We don't want you to get cold. I'd hate for that sniffle to turn into anything worse."

* * *

I think it's perfectly normal to talk to your transport. I talk to my bikes all the time. Everybody does that, right?... Right?

Reviews are the Interesting Conversation With Your Favoured Conveyance in the Garage Of Life!*

*If anybody is jealous of Kaz, simply because she's had Dean wriggling about underneath her so many times, please try to be more charitable than that.


	3. Chapter 2

Kaz calls herself Kaz because that was the first three letters of her licence plate – KAZ 2Y5 – when she was first introduced in Season One of 'Supernatural'. It sounds so much friendlier than Miss Chevrolet, don't you think?

* * *

**Chapter Two**

"So," Kaz put a plate of perfectly scrambled eggs and crispy bacon in front of Dean, "What are you thinking for this next job, Sam?"

"I, uh, er," stuttered Sam, trying hard not to gawp at the pleasant, middle-aged figure as she put a cheese and tomato omelette in front of him. "Well, there have been some, uh, disappearances that have coincided with, um..."

Kaz peered at him in concern. "Are you alright, honey?" she asked in a kindly tone.

"Well, the thing is, Miss Impala, we're not use to you bein', uh, well, human-shaped," Bobby told her. "It's a bit, um, disconcerting, seein' you walking around, and talking."

"Oh, Bobby, don't be so formal!" He laugh was like a deep, pleasant rumble. "Please call me Kaz! 'Miss Impala' makes me sound old – I'm a Modern Classic, yes, but I'm not Vintage just yet! Though I hope to get there, one day," she added, smiling at Dean and putting a doting hand on his shoulder as he ate. Dean beamed up at her, and sniffled. She frowned a little, and pushed a box of tissues towards him. "Do not use your sleeve," she instructed him. "Now, what can I get you for breakfast, Bobby?"

"Oh, there's no need to go to the trouble," he began, but she would hear none of it.

"Bobby Singer, you are as good as family," she stated firmly, "And I remain grateful for the times you've spent hours on your back, sweating away underneath me..."

Sam choked on a mouthful of omelette, and Kaz patted him on the back while he coughed.

"... Seeing to my upkeep when John or Dean was laid up, and unable to do it," she finished, giving Dean another doting smile, whilst rubbing Sam's back in a motherly way. "So I insist! Don't argue with me Bobby, I weigh just under 3,900 pounds before I even load up. Sam, chew your food properly, honey, there's no need to bolt it, nobody is going to take it away from you."

While she prepared Bobby's breakfast, he tried another tack.

"So then, Kaz, can you tell us what you're doin' here?" he asked her.

"I'm here with Dean and Sam, of course," she laughed as she put his plate down, "That's my job, Bobby!"

"Of course, of course," he agreed, "But, what I was getting at was, can you tell us why you are here, now with limbs instead of wheels, and a rather fetching twin set instead of your usual panels?"

Kaz paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "I think it's so I can look after them," she said eventually. "Because that's my job, too. After all, Dean looks after me so well," she beamed at Dean once more.

"You're a thing of beauty, Kaz," Dean sighed dreamily, "And it's an honour and a pleasure to service you."

"Oh, you!' she chuckled, swatting him playfully with a dish cloth. "Sam, honey, chew your food, remember?" She patted him on the back again.

"Do you know how you came to be, uh, changed?" Bobby persisted.

"I really couldn't say," she answered, "But if you really want to know, I'm sure Sam will work it out. He's very good at that. Always has his nose in a book, and the hours I've spent parked outside libraries and archives..."

"I think it might be a good idea for us to work out how it happened, before we go doing anything else," Sam wheezed, recovering from his last coughing fit.

"That's sensible," nodded Kaz. "And you could both probably do with some downtime, too. You've been busy this last month, and I know you're both tired. Why, Dean barely managed sex with that girl on Monday, he was so exhausted, what was her name, Katie, Kathy, Kathleen, something like that? Oh, Dean, honey, chew your food." She picked up the half-piece of dried-out bacon from the end of the pack, and held it out for Jimi, the Winchesters' half-Hellhound Rottweiler. The dog sat politely, and gazed up at her adoringly, as she smiled and gave him the rind piece, which he took gently. "Well, at least one of my Winchester boys has nice manners," she noted.

After Kaz had satisfied herself that Dean was not in fact choking, she made them coffee, which turned out to be just how they liked it – "Of course I know how you like it, you've spilled enough of it in me, you messy little devils!" - then shooed them out of the kitchen so she could clean up. Jimi sat by her feet, tail wagging, as she dropped him little tidbits of bacon rind from the dishes.

"I've seen some weird shit before," Bobby shook his head, "But havin' a car cook me breakfast, that has to be right up there with The Haunted Tea Cosy of Polecat Bottoms for blowin' a relay in the weirdometer."

"It's... yeah, I can't think of a better word that 'weird'," agreed Sam. "You're taking this very calmly, Dean," he commented, "Doesn't it strike you as seriously weird?"

"Nope," Dean shrugged, "After all, we've eaten so many meals in her, it's no wonder she knows our breakfast preferences."

"I'm not talking about breakfast!" yapped Sam, exasperated, "I'm talking about her current appearance, you know, middle-aged woman in a twin-set, specs and modest beehive?"

"Nope again," Dean smiled, "She was born in '67, so of course she's middle-aged, and that's what working women would've worn then, and of course she looks damned good for her age, because I've looked after her."

"DEAN!" Sam huffed, giving his brother a shot of Bitchface #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?). "What I MEAN is, I'm talking about the fact that your car, your CAR, your automobile, your nearly two tons of Detroit steel, your conveyance powered by an internal combustion engine, your CAR, Dean, has traded her wheels for limbs, and is now walking around rather than rolling, talking rather than revving, and generally looking far more like a human being than cars usually do!"

"Well, yeah," Dean hummed thoughtfully, "I suppose it is a bit weird. It's certainly never happened before. Not in reality, anyway. I have had a couple of pretty freaky dreams, though, where she turns into this really hot chick, and we do it in the middle of a parking lot..."

"GAH!" Sam stomped off in the direction of the study. "If anybody wants me for anything sensible, I'll be trying to figure out what happened," he growled.

"Did I hear raised voices in here?" Kaz was standing in the doorway, looking concerned. Jimi poked his head around her leg, licking his chops.

"It's just Sam," grinned Dean, "Having one of his bitch fits."

Kaz shot a fond look in the direction of the study. "He always has been unhappy when he can't figure something out," she sighed. Her doting expression changed to a frown as Dean coughed briefly, then went to wipe his nose on his sleeve. Tutting at him, she pulled a tissue from her own sleeve and held it to his nose.

"Blow," she commanded. Dean obeyed, as she put a hand to his forehead. "You're not coming down with something, are you?" she asked him.

"I'm fine," he replied automatically, "Just tired."

"Well, some rest and some proper food will do you good," she nodded judiciously, and he smiled back.

"I'll go give Sam a hand," Bobby decided, "I think it's probably a good idea to sort this out as quickly as we can."

"What about you, Dean?" Kaz asked.

"Well, I was going to have another try at getting the gearbox out of that Pontiac Bobby has out back," Dean began, then he suddenly looked anxious. "That is, if you don't mind..."

"I'm tellin' you boy, you're wasting your time," Bobby sighed sadly, "That poor old thing is too far gone..."

"The chassis is sound, and the engine is tired, but workable," Dean argued.

"The '65 GTO?" Kaz said brightly. "Oh, you mean Deirdre!" She laughed her warm, deep laugh. "She'd love to roll again," Kaz went on, "But she's a bit of a hypochondriac. That's how she ended up the way she is, I'm afraid. Don't you be put off by her, she loves the attention she gets from you two poking around under her. She's just the type to make you work for it."

"Sounds like a Deirdre I knew a long time ago," mused Bobby with a small chuckle.

"Well, if Kaz doesn't mind, I'll be outside," Dean grinned, sniffling again.

Kaz pressed a handful of tissues on him, and reminded him not to wipe his nose on his sleeve. "You go with him, Jimi," she instructed the dog, "Keep an eye on him for me."

Jimi whuffed dutifully, and trotted out after Dean.

"So, er," Bobby shuffled awkwardly, "Seein' as you're a guest, I don't really want to leave you rattlin' around here by yourself..."

Kaz laughed that wonderful laugh again. "Bobby, those two boys have enough laundry and mending that needs doing to keep me going for a week!" she exclaimed. "And Dean and Sam will be hungry again in a couple of hours. Especially Dean. So, I'll be in the laundry." She pursed her lips briefly, then reached up and snatched the hat from his head. "I'll do yours, too," she announced, as Bobby squawked in a combination of outrage and surprise, "Including this. Don't look at me like that," she wagged a finger at him, "I'll give your hats priority, because I know how important they are to you." With another smile, she turned, and headed upstairs, presumably to fetch dirty laundry.

Feeling decidedly bereft, Bobby scuttled to the kitchen. where he had his second emergency hat stashed behind the bread tin.

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice In A Fetching Apron Preparing You Breakfast in the Kitchen Of Life!*

*With clothes on under the apron. It's Health Dept. regs.


	4. Chapter 3

Ermagerd! Look! Another chapter! Frigging bunnies...

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Bobby, are you okay?" Sam asked him later, looking up from the book he was consulting. His practically-father seemed unusually twitchy.

"Since you ask, no, I am not okay," humphed Bobby, "Your brother's car abducted my hat, Sam, and now, I feel... bare."

"Well, it's not like you don't have others," Sam pointed out.

"I put on one of my others," Bobby related miserably, "My second emergency hat. And she took that one, too."

"Bobby, you've got hats all over the house!" Sam remarked.

"And she found 'em all!" Bobby almost wailed, "Now I'm hatless!"

"Millinary outrage aside, what have we got?" mused Sam. "It doesn't have any hallmarks of possession, and it doesn't have that 'evil spirit' vibe."

Bobby nodded. "The most evil thing she's done is dish up a delicious breakfast, and as a rule, evil manifestations are more interested in killin' with means a lot quicker and messier than cholesterol poisoning. She's not old enough to be a tsukumogami, an animated artefact, and anyway she'd have to be a Suzuki or a Honda or some Japanese marque for that. Transformations are usually about turnin' humans into inanimate objects, or simpler animals. Goin' the other way, very tricky..."

"I can't believe how, how,_ nuts_ Dean can be," Sam complained, "His car has turned into a woman, she seems to be intent on mothering him, and he's perfectly okay with that, and now he's talking to another car too - it defies logic!"

"You spend enough time around machinery of a certain age, you soon learn that sometimes logic aint the be all and end all," Bobby chuckled, "Some of 'em, I'd swear, they do develop minds of their own."

"Great. It's some sort of insanity curse, and it's contagious," muttered Sam.

Bobby paused, and went 'hmmmmmm' in a thoughtful fashion. "Is there any possibility that some of them crazy fangirl wimmen are doing this, I wonder?" he pondered out loud. "After that bunch callin' themselves L.E.W.D. managed to cast a spell makin' it impossible for you to wear clothes, could some of 'em have a bee in their collective bonnets about wantin' to pair him up with his car? You know, them real strange ones who write their own stories with Mr Edlund's 'Supernatural' characters?"

"I don't think so," Sam answered. "This doesn't have the hallmarks of a Dean/Impala story."

Bobby looked confused. "What sort of hallmarks?"

"Well," Sam began, his face colouring again, "If it was someone writing fanfiction, Kaz would be... different."

"Different? How?" pressed Bobby.

Sam swallowed uncomfortably. "Well, as a rule, any time fanfiction writers write about Dean and a human!Impala, the Impala is inevitably turned into a really hot, sexy, and provocatively dressed woman - or man – in their early twenties..."

Bobby's eyebrows twitched slightly.

"And there would've been a lot more URST, if not actual sex, by now," Sam added. "Of course, the one way we could test conclusively for fanfiction involvement would be to look for the tattoo."

"What tattoo?" asked Bobby.

"The inevitable tattoo," Sam explained, "In every single Dean/human!Impala fanfiction story every written, she – or, uh, he – has a tramp stamp with the licence plate tattooed in the small of her – or his – back. It's like it's a rule on the sites that host these stories. You gotta include the tattoo, or the story isn't accepted."

"God's tits," breathed Bobby. "You're brother's right, you know. Demons I get, but humans, just plain crazy." He touched his head forlornly. "I really feel uncomfortable," he said mournfully. "Without my hat, I feel... undressed. Exposed. Naked."

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic," tutted Kaz, coming into the study with a tray, the contents of which included one of Bobby's hats. She put the tray down, then put the hat back on his head. "There," she said, sounding satisfied, "All nice and clean!"

A sunny smile broke out on Bobby's face. "It's nice and warm, too," he noted.

"Good," said Kaz. "Now, I've brought you coffee, and some snacks," she went on, "Because you've been working hard in here. But first, give me your shirt, Sam."

"What?" Sam gawped in surprise, and clutched at his shirt.

"The elbow is just about gone through on that one, and buttons are missing," Kaz frowned, proffering another. "I brought you another one, washed and mended, so, give me that one." She held out her other hand expectantly.

"Um" went Sam, his face pinking slightly, "I'm not sure it's really, uh, you know, appropriate..."

"Saaaaaam," Kaz drew his name out in a firm tone, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Avoiding her eyes, and trying not to notice Bobby's grin, he pulled off his shirt and surrendered it, donning the one she handed over. "Oh, it's nice and warm..."

"Pants," instructed Kaz briskly, holding out another pair.

_"What?"_ Sam yipped again, his eyes bugging.

Kaz fixed him with the sort of affectionate-yet-exasperated glare that he suspected mothers used on their small children. "They are in desperate need of mending," she told him in a businesslike tone, "And they are also in need of washing."

"But I only put them on last week!" he complained.

Kaz gave him a small smile of triumph, like a scientist whose lifelong pet theory has suddenly been proved to be right. "I do not intend to wait until they are capable of walking to the laundry by themselves," she informed him.

"Best do what she tells you, son," Bobby chuckled, "Take it from a man who's had experience, when a woman has it in her mind to do your washing and mending, aint nothing you can do but follow orders."

"I have 'seen' you without pants on before, Sam," Kaz reminded him gently, "You had your diaper changed on my back seat more times than I can remember..."

"But that was when I was a baby, a toddler!" Sam protested, clutching at the offending garment.

"...And, there have been the few occasions when you have, shall we say, entertained female company on my back seat..." she went on with an indulgent smile, as Sam's face flushed scarlet.

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Sam?" he asked, "Really?"

Sam mumbled something about "It's only been a couple of times," and "I'm not as bad as Dean," and "At least I put down a blanket or something."

"Dean would be so proud, if you told him," Kaz said happily.

His face glowing red to his ears and muttering mutinously under his breath, Sam kicked off his shoes, and reluctantly parted with his pants.

Kaz frowned as he did so. "It looks like the elastic is just about gone on those shorts," she noted.

"You can't have my shorts!" Sam squeaked, hopping on one foot to get into the clean pants that Kaz held out as quickly as possible.

"No, but it does mean that you probably need some new ones," she declared. "We can take care of that later. But now, I'll leave you to get back to your research."

Sam turned back to his book, and flipped a couple of pages. "She must get it from Dean," he muttered, "He's spent so many years grossing me out, she doesn't know any different."

"At least she let you keep your shorts," consoled Bobby.

"We have to find out what caused this," Sam shuddered, "Because next time, I might not be so lucky."

"There's more cookies cooling in the kitchen," Kaz called, as they heard the outside door open, "I expect you to help yourselves as you want them. I'm just going out to see Dean."

Sam's head shot up, and he slammed the book shut as he shot up from his seat.

"Where's the fire, Sam?" asked Bobby bemusedly.

"You heard her!" Sam yelped, pulling his shoes back on, "She's going after Dean! She's going out into the yard, and she's going to pants him!"

"It may not be a problem, y'know," mused Bobby, smiling a little, "Your brother seems perfectly comfortable around her. And God knows,_ he's_ been as nekkid as the day he was born in his car's back seat more times than just about any other guy whoever tested out the suspension with a lady friend..."

"It's not funny!" Sam snapped, "We have no idea what's causing this! It could be anything! It could be a possession! It could be an evil spirit! It could be a demon! And it's going out there to strip my brother naked!" He headed out of the study at a run. "Hang tight, Dean, I'm coming!"

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Clutching Desperately At The Pants Of Life!


	5. Chapter 4

For those who are more recent visitors to the Jimiverse, you can read all about Sam and Dean and the unfortunate episodes of Gratuitous Winchester Nudity, as engineered by L.E.W.D. (Loving Explicit Winchester Descriptions) in my story 'Fanservice'.

I'm pretty sure there must be exceptions to the hot human!Impala fanfic trope out there, but I haven't found 'em yet... I'm not a seeker after Dean/human!Impala fics, it's just that you often don't find out that that's what they are until you're reading them. Which can be especially discombobulating if it happens to be a Dean - slash - malehuman!Impala fic without warning... Slash is not my thang (if it's yours, that's up to you). Which has made for some startling moments on DeviantArt, where people have drawn Bobby/Crowley with nothing in the way of clothing in the picture. Zoiks! O_o.

You can see an interpretation of the tramp stamp at the following address. If you're game... (don't forget to remove the spaces)

http**COLONSLASHSLASH** garama**DOT** deviantart**DOT** com/art/SUPERNATURAL-stuff-07-311633044

I'm a shameless mechoanthropomorphiser - I talk to my bikes all the time. Mind you, I'm sure it wouldn't be much fun if they actually turned up human, because one would be a barely controlled six year old, and the other would be a teenage girl. Again, Zoiks!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Dean paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes and the sniffling from his nose on his shirt, waiting for a brief moment of dizziness to pass. He was just tired, he told himself, and had probably overexerted himself trying to drop the gearbox out of the junked car.

The Pontiac was proving to be as recalcitrant as Bobby and Kaz had implied. He'd soaked the bolts with penetrating oil, tapped gently at the torque driver, but the damned things refused to budge. He'd used the largest spanner extension he could find, and hauled on the wrench until the cords on his arms stood out and his vision started to grey, but Deirdre hung onto her gearbox like a small overtired child clinging to a teddy bear. He broke off in a fit of coughing, with a modicum of swearing thrown in for good measure.

"C'mon, Deirdre, throw me a bone, here," he wheedled as he wheezed, sitting down by her back wheel to catch his breath, and patting it gently. "It's gotta come out. I think your selectors are seized up. If I can't fix it, you can have a new one! Well, a newer one. One that works, at least. Wouldn't you like that?"

"Of course she would," he heard Kaz's voice as she made her way across the yard. "She's just being cantankerous." She gave the trunk lid a hearty slap. "Don't be such a bitch, you old drama queen," she sniffed, "He's trying to help." She handed Dean a beer, and he ran the bottle across his face before taking a long drink and sighing.

"Thanks, Kaz," he grinned weakly up at her. "I'm not sure that Deirdre likes me as much as you do, though."

Before she could reply, he heard the door of the house bang, and Sam's anxious yelling. "Dean! Dean! Hold on, Dean!"

When Sam drew to a panting halt in front of his brother, Dean sat by the deteriorated Pontiac, clutching his beer in both hands and staring at it intensely.

"Dean!" he said, peering at his brother anxiously, "What's wrong?"

"You tell me," Dean replied, not taking his eyes off his beer, "You're the one who came racing out here yelling at me to hang on, so, I'm hanging on. I guarantee you, I am hanging on to this beer tightly, and it has no chance of escape..."

"Jerk," he spat, glaring at Kaz. "I came to warn you," he went on, "Your car is here to tear your clothes off!"

Dean looked from Sam, to Kaz, back to Sam, then back to Kaz. "You didn't have to ply me with alcohol for that," he smiled sunnily, "For you, all you'd have to do would be ask..."

"Gaaaaah!" shrieked Sam. "Dude, she's your car!"

"And more than ten years your senior," Kaz chided Dean. "I only came out here to bring Dean a beer, Sam," she explained good-humouredly, "Because he always changes his clothes after a job like this. And there would be no point in asking him to put clean ones on right now, because he'd just get them dirty straight away." She wrinkled her nose. "Although it's difficult to see how you could get worse, Dean, you really have to do laundry more often."

"Maybe that's what's annoying Deirdre," Dean commented gloomily; he sniffed at his own sweaty shirt, then took another drink. "I am really getting the feeling that she just doesn't want me working on her."

"Dean, it's a car," Sam humphed, "A machine, machines don't 'want' things..."

"Well, she's had a hard life," Kaz explained. "Her first owner, he was a travelling salesman, and while he might have known a lot about vacuum cleaners, he didn't know much about looking after a car."

Dean looked astonished. "You... talk to the other cars?"

"Oh, all the time," Kaz told him airily. "Poor Deirdre just needed someone to listen. When that salesman kept costs to a minimum, her upkeep was one of the first things he skimped on. The second guy, he was a high school jock, with an ego the size of planet and a brain the size of a walnut. He deliberately left her exhaust damaged, because it sounded 'cooler' that way."

Dean looked aghast. "He didn't!" He turned and stroked Deirdre's door. "Oh, that's no way to treat a classic lady," he commented sadly.

"Dean, it's a car!" insisted Sam, "Why are you talking to it?"

"After that, she went through a succession of owners, high school kids, mainly," Kaz went on, "None of them with the money to put into fixing her up properly. She eventually ended up with a young guy who was all talk and no action, kept going on about how he was going to restore her one day," she shook her head sadly, "She sat under half a tarp for a while, then ended up here, because by the time he'd lost interest, she was so badly deteriorated."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Deirdre," Dean crooned to the car, "I didn't know, sweetheart. You've had a bad time, haven't you?"

"Not all cars are as lucky as me, Dean," Kaz reminded him.

"I do not believe I'm hearing this!" yelped Sam. "This – is – a – car!"

"Don't you listen to him," instructed Dean, "He doesn't understand."

"You're right," nodded Sam, "I do NOT understand why I'm standing here, listening to my brother make up with an inanimate object..."

"I feel really bad for swearing at you, now," Dean said mournfully, "Come on, Deirdre, what's say we have a look and prove those assholes wrong? Let me get that gearbox out, huh?"

"Fine," growled Sam, "Fine, you stay out here, and talk to the cars, but don't say I didn't warn you. If she grabs you by the feet and pantses you, don't come running to me with your dignity and your shorts around your ankles!"

Dean considered that. "If I had my shorts around my ankles, I wouldn't be running anywhere," he reasoned, sniffling again, before honking into one of the tissues Kaz had given him earlier. "As a man who has spent a lot of time with his pants around his ankles, I think I'm qualified to have an informed opinion on the matter..."

With a final parting shot of Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted) Sam turned and stomped back towards the house.

"It's a little bit naughty of you, the way you tease your brother," Kaz chided Dean with an indulgent smile.

"Maybe," he smiled up at her, "But it's so much fun."

"There are cookies inside if you want a snack," she told him, "And I think you will need some new shorts and socks, too, I've been doing your laundry, and the ones you have are in a terrible state."

"Kaaaaaaz," whined Dean.

"Kaz me no Kazes, Dean," she told him firmly, "I shall expect you in for lunch no later than one."

"I'll be there," he promised, "That gives me plenty of time to convince Deirdre here that..." he broke off into a coughing fit again.

Kaz hunkered down beside him, and patted his back.

"I think you are coming down with something," she opined, "I think you should come inside, and rest for a little."

"I'mbe finde," he replied, fishing for another tissue and blowing his nose extravagantly. "Now, I think that if I get the extension and the mallet to those bolts..."

He made to stand up, but as he did so, his face turned white, and he collapsed against the Pontiac and slid ungracefully back to the ground.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They were nose deep in their respective books when they heard the door bang open, and Kaz calling. "Sam! Bobby!" Her tone was urgent, so they headed for the kitchen.

Dean slumped against her, looking decidedly wobbly. "I'm fine," he reassured them, his knees sagging under him again as Sam moved to catch him on the other side.

"No you are not," sniffed Kaz. "Dean has a fever, and practically passed out."

"No I dobn't," Dean countered, "I had a perfectly harmless very manly dizzy spell, due to my exertions trying to shift those bolts, and I'm just all hot and sweaty from being underneath Deirdre, because she's so hot, right?"

"Dean, knock it off!" scolded Sam. "You look terrible, bro, and you can't even stand up by yourself! How many times do I have to tell you not to do this to yourself?"

"Don't you play Cleopatra, Queen Of Denial, with me, Dean," Kaz told him firmly as they steered him towards the stairs, "I'm more familiar than you know with your 'There's Nothing Wrong With Me' routine. You are getting cleaned up and going to bed."

"Oh, great," moaned Dean, "I'm being double-teamed, here, Bobby, do something!"

"I will," the older Hunter nodded, "I'll stay out of the way so I don't hinder progress."

"Et tu, Bobby," snuffled Dean, as he was half-marched, half-dragged up the stairs, with Jimi trotting anxiously behind him.

Bobby shook his head, then headed back to the kitchen. Those cookies sounded pretty good just about then.

The sounds of unhappy moaning drifted back downstairs as Sam came bolting back down.

"Bobby! Bobby!" he cried, eyes wide, "She's steered him into the bathroom! I think she's gonna..." he gulped, "...Wash him!"

"Well, he could certainly do with it," Bobby acknowledged, "He was kinda ripe when she brought him in."

"But this time she's really going to pants him!" Sam went on.

Bobby considered that. "He's washed her plenty of times," he shrugged, "She's just returnin' the favour."

"But... but... she's a _car_, Bobby!" Sam wailed, "She's his _car_, somehow enchanted to be a human! I am not happy about my big brother being washed by his car!"

"No problem then," beamed Bobby, "You just head on up there and offer to do it for her."

Sam's mouth opened and shut a few times.

"So," he said, heading for the study, "Are you absolutely sure it can't be a Japanese tsukumogami?"

* * *

So, what will Kaz do? Issue instructions from her side of the shower curtain, or drop him into the bath and start sponging?

Feed the bunny! Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Requiring Your Ablutionary Assistance in the Bathroom Of Life!


	6. Chapter 5

The Denizens are feeding this bunny at the moment, so it's whispering again...

Okay, here's something that's been bugging me – for the last several days, every time I go to my FFN page to update this story, the lead banner ad at the top of the screen is... an ad for bustiers. Bustiers. All sorts of bustiers. It's starting to mess with my head. I've never worn a bustier. I've never wanted a bustier. Why is the Great God Interwebs thrusting this ad at me? Seriously, it's always there – you've never seen thrustier bustiers... what is the connection between the Winchesters and bustiers? Is this some strange hangover from CorsetCas, the third Underwear Avenger from 'You Gotta Be Kidding'? _Why is this happening? ? ?_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Sam was familiar with the term 'man-flu'. Jess had accused him of having it once.

It had been at the end of the college year. He'd been working hard all semester, as usual, whilst holding down a couple of casual jobs to take care of all the expenses that the scholarship didn't cover, while putting in extra study time in preparation for exams. It was perhaps inevitable that, having worn himself out thus, as soon as the last assignment was handed in and the last exam was done, he was run down and exhausted, and easy prey to the first summer cold that came along.

Due to his overtaxed condition, it probably hit him harder than it would've if he hadn't been so worn out, but he felt really, really bad, and took to his bed, where Jess plied him with pills for his headache and decongestants for his sniffles and lozenges for his cough. She also kept up a steady supply of lemon drinks for his sore throat, delicious home cooked comfort food to tempt his disappeared appetite, massage for his aches and pains and cookies for his general misery because, she said, she believed that just about everything short of a direct nuclear strike could be mitigated at least in part by deployment of her grandmother's chocolate chip cookie recipe. Even man-flu.

Sam had retorted that he couldn't have man-flu, because he clearly didn't have actual influenza, which was a completely different virus to the several most usual causes of the common cold and caused a much more severe illness. He might not have exaggerated his symptoms in an attempt to solicit attention and care, as in the case of true fulminant man-flu, but he was honest enough to admit to himself that it wasn't just the paracetamol and the decongestant and the benzocaine that helped to alleviate his symptoms; it was knowing that she was there, and looking after him, and prepared to coddle him, that contributed to making him feel better.

Dean had done much the same when Sam had been a kid, and still did whenever Sam truly became ill, plying him with pharmaceuticals as he accused his baby brother of being a wimp and a delicate fainting flower and a drama queen. Sam suspected that the act was also intended to mask Dean's worry, and disguise his mother-henning, as his big brother simultaneously made him feel better just by being there, and caring for him.

He'd tried to return the favour whenever Dean was unwell, but Dean's ridiculous stoicism and Protective Big Brother Complex – "I'm fine," he'd scrawl on a note pad, because his throat was too swollen and sore and coughed raw for him to speak – didn't allow for that. ("That's what I'm going to put on your tombstone," Sam often griped at his big brother, "Your epitaph will be, 'I'm fine'.") But from Dean's perspective, that was how it worked. Dean was the big brother; Sam was the baby brother. It was Dean's job to look after Sam, not the other way around.

The craziness of it drove Sam nuts, but he knew that Dean would not admit surrender, even as he crawled into his bed and pulled the blankets over his head and issued orders to tell the world to piss off and leave him alone until Half Past Get Fucked. So Sam would just carry on as usual, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, and his brother didn't sound like a startled walrus trying to gargle hot gravel whilst trying to seduce a foghorn. He would just leave cold & flu meds by the bed, gather up the billowing herds of wild tissues that roamed the floor and replace the empty boxes, and lay in a supply of the chicken noodle soup that seemed to be all that Dean would eat. (That was what sealed the deal for Sam in deciding whether Dean was truly ill or not – if all he was willing to try to eat was soup, Dean was feeling _sick_). "If you don't stop mother-henning, Francis, I will turn you into a pot of Sammy noodle soup," Dean had growled on more than one occasion. But that was okay; Sam was fluent enough in Deanese to know that the crankiness, protests, griping and name-calling were just Dean's way of saying _Thanks for being here, bro._

So it was something of a surprise that Dean not only accepted Kaz's diagnosis of You Are Not Well Dean, he refrained from threatening to turn Kaz into a pot of Impala noodle soup, and in addition he seemed to put up with her attentions with an astonishing absence of snarkiness, grumpiness or complaint. Sam would even say there was an air of... compliance as she sat his big brother on the small stool in the bathroom, and instructed him to undress while she ran a bath.

On the one hand, Sam was worried about his brother, and didn't want to leave him to be washed by his humanised car. Because that was just, like, totally weird.

On the other hand, Sam didn't want to stay and watch his big brother getting _washed _by his humanised _car,_ because that was just, like, _totally weird_...

Bobby seemed unconcerned, though, so when Kaz called, he made his way back upstairs.

Dean sat in the tub, wearing a large-eyed mournful expression that looked remarkably similar to the one that Jimi assumed whenever he was sitting in the bath, and wished to convey the impression that he was The Saddest Dog In The World. "I feel terrible, Kaz," he moaned. Jimi, who sat next to Kaz where she knelt, honked soothingly on Oinker Stoinker the blue squeaky pig.

"I'm not surprised," she replied, smiling indulgently at him as she ran the washcloth over his face, "You have a fever, and a nasty cough. A nice tepid bath will make you feel better. Ah, Sam," she turned briskly to Sam, who was staring hard at the floor. "Would you be a dear, and fetch Dean some clean clothes? Sweats and a tee. He's going straight to bed. Lean forward, Dean, so I can do your back..." Dean did, with another pitiful moan.

Sam wasn't sure what was more perplexing; his brother's failure to complain that he didn't need to go to bed, or the meek obedience in the face of the wielded washcloth.

"Uh, yeah, okay," he replied haltingly. "Um, Dean," he went on, "Are you, er, you know, okay here?"

"No, Sam," Dean told him miserably, "I'm not okay. My throat hurts, my chest hurts, I feel dreadfuuuuuuuul..."

"Oh, you poor thing," Kaz patted Dean on the back, "Getting clean will help, trust me. Let's wash your hair..."

Sam fled, and dithered over fetching Dean's things for as long as he could. When he returned, Dean looked like a dog being primped for the show ring, Kaz lathering his hair while Jimi kept up the supportive honking from a safe distance from The Evil Tub.

"How's that, Dean?" she asked solicitously.

"That's nice," Dean replied with a small smile.

"Here'shisstuff," squeaked Sam, dropping the clothes and fleeing again.

Sam hovered outside the door for a few more bemusing minutes, which were punctuated by episodes of splashing, moaning and honking. Then, a pleasant contralto female voice began to sing, interspersed with added toy noises.

"Oinker Stoinker, you're the one _honk whonk  
_You make bathtime lots of fun _whunk whonk  
_Oinker Stoinker, I'm awfully fond of you... " _whunk whonk honk_

Then he head Dean's voice join in.

"Oinker Stoinker, joy of joys,  
When I squeeze you, you make noise,  
Oinker Stoinker you're my very best friend it's true..." _honk honk whonk_

"Justyellifyouneedme!" he squawked before heading back downstairs.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"It's creepy, Bobby," Sam complained, "He's completely blasé about a strange woman washing him!"

"She's not exactly a strange woman, Sam," Bobby pointed out, "She's your brother's car. To him, she's practically family, a comforting presence that's always been there."

"That should be my job!" complained Sam, "I'm his brother!" His thought about what he'd just said. "Okay, maybe not washing him as such, I've had to do that when he's injured and neither of us enjoys it, but he doesn't let me help him like that when he's sick. If I try to do so much as ask whether he's running a temperature, he brushes me off or threatens to punch me!"

"Yeah," Bobby grinned, "Because you're his baby brother, ya idjit. The one he's supposed to look after. He's Batman, remember? And Batman doesn't want Robin holdin' the tissue and tellin' him to blow his nose. Think about it," he went on, "She's the one thing that's never let him down somehow, that's always been there for him to run or stagger or crawl back to, even when he was Huntin' on his own. Especially when he was Huntin' on his own." Sam flushed a little at that. "She's his home, the one constant he's truly had all his life, the one thing, short of here, that makes him feel safe. So it's not completely surprisin' that he's willing to let her look after him." Bobby smiled at him. "You aint gettin' jealous of his car, are you?"

Sam sighed. "It's just... weird," he answered, feeling a bit, well, lame.

"Yes it is," Bobby nodded in agreement, "But there's no malice in this, whatever it is," he pointed it out. "If there was, one of us would've picked it up. Why don't you let him just enjoy being looked after while he can without damaging his already-pathologically-low self-esteem?"

"Yeah, I guess," sighed Sam, "She's doing a pretty good job so far."

"So, we'll leave her to it, which will have the happy side effect of giving us the opportunity to work out what happened to her," Bobby reasoned.

"That's true," Sam conceded, "He might even be a bit less cranky about being sick."

"Well, let's not get too optimistic," Bobby chuckled. "Don't forget, son," he added, "She's been your home too, since you were six months old. There's two sets of initials carved into her back ledge."

"Sam," Kaz called, "Could you give me some help with your brother, dear?"

"Well, don't just stand there," ordered Bobby, gesturing imperiously, "Go help the lady with that idjit."

Sam did as he was bid, telling himself that Bobby was right, he shouldn't worry, and that he could still help look after his brother, even if it was just helping to get him as far as his bed.

He hoped that's what she meant, anyway, because if she was going to ask Sam to grab a towel and help her to dry Dean off, he reserved the right to run screaming.

* * *

*coff coff* don't mind me *coff coff* I think I might be choking on the fluff. I might've known that the shower option wouldn't have any takers.

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Sitting Unresisting In The Bath Of Life! (You reprobates.)


	7. Chapter 6

...Yep, this is definitely the bunny that's being fed...

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Having helped his thankfully dressed brother to his bed, Sam watched with a sort of horrified fascination as Kaz fussed around Dean, fluffing pillows and straightening sheets and shaking out quilts. "How's that, Dean?" she asked tenderly, running a hand gently through his hair.

"I'm cold, Kaz," Dean answered mournfully, coming very close indeed to trademark infringement on The Sammy Eyes®.

"Well, let's see what we have," she smiled, opening the closet and reaching for a high shelf. "Ah, this should help!" She shook out a blue fluffy blanket with a cheerful motif of yellow duckies holding umbrellas.

"Not that one," pouted Dean, "I want my blankie! That's Sam's!"

"Oh, I'm sorry honey," Kaz apologised, taking down the other blanket, the cherry pink one with the rabbits-having-a-tea-party themed print on it. "Here you go," she spread it out over Dean's bed, as he gave her a brave, wobbly little smile. "Now, you get yourself comfortable." Dean snuggled obediently into the bedclothes, then Jimi jumped onto the bed to do Alpha-warming duty.

"Uh, perhaps I should go see what we got for cold and flu meds," Sam suggested, "That's kind of a nasty cough, and his breathing sounds very congested."

"That's a good idea, Sam," Kaz agreed, pulling another tissue from her sleeve and holding it out for Dean to honk into vigorously.

Bobby's bathroom cabinet and the Winchesters' own First Aid kit didn't yield much: a few paracetamol tablets, a fluff-encrusted bottle of cough syrup of indeterminate origin, and a jar of Vicks that might well have been nearing its hundredth birthday. He reported back with his meagre findings.

"Uh, it's not much," he said apologetically, handing over the tablets, "These look okay, if slightly crushed."

"They'll be a start," she told him, handing two to Dean, "I need to go shopping anyway, we'll pick up some more things for you, Dean," she reassured her patient, "So, you just rest up for now, and concentrate on getting better."

"But... Dierdre..." he said plaintively.

"I'm sure she'll understand," Kaz assured him, "Sam and I will talk to her..."

"Huh?" gawped Sam.

"...So, you don't have to worry about anything except resting and recovering." She flashed him another doting smile, and he smiled back. "So, why don't you try to take a nap?"

"But I'm not tired," Dean practically whined, with a big yawn.

"Well, then, why don't I read to you for a little?" she suggested, tucking the bedclothes up around his shoulders. She picked up the dog-eared copy of 'Hemmings Muscle Machines' that Dean had lifted from a grubby diner they'd patronised somewhere between Bumfuck Somestate and Bobby's, and seated herself comfortably on the side of his bed. "Oh, this sounds good," she commented, scanning the cover, "Listen to this article: 'Together Forever: 20 Owners Who Still Have – And Drive – Their First Car'." She flicked through the pages, then began to read. "Ahem. 'Love at first only happens in fairy-tales. Even the most unrealistically idealistic and chivalric spotty youth finds that out quickly enough, once he's humiliated himself in front of enough girls with his earnest declarations, honourable intentions, and possibly badly written (if somewhat unintentionally humorous) poetry dedicated to the object of his courtly affections. Given enough brush-offs, from the dismissive flip of the perfectly-coiffed ponytail to the threats of stalking charges or bodily rearrangement by her big brother, her father, or herself, if he's been foolish enough to fall for a member of the school martial arts club, he'll learn. It just doesn't happen. Not between humans, anyway. But, like fairy-tales, occasionally a human will fall for a beast, and it will be forever...'..."

Sam withdrew quietly as Kaz continued to read Dean's magazine to him, and headed back downstairs to join Bobby. "She's reading to him," he reported, "She's reading to him from one of his car magazines. Something about guys who still have their first cars."

"Should be right up his alley, then," Bobby commented, turning a page.

"I guess it's not so bad," Sam decided, "It's a car magazine. It'll be about guys who do the maintenance on their old cars themselves." His head suddenly shot up with worry. "Hey, you don't think there'll be anything, you know, unnatural in there?" he asked. "Those magazines have practically-naked women in them. You don't think it'll turn out to be some exposé on a secret network of mechanophiliacs?" He had a sudden terrible flashback to the time he and his brother swapped bodies with the salvage yard's gargoyles, Tiem and Zan. Tiem had a decided crush on Baby, and the sight of his brother's body attempting to consummate the relationship had traumatised him in a way that still gave him the occasional nightmare.

Bobby fixed him with a long-suffering look. "Son," he jerked a thumb upward, "Do you really think he's behavin' in a manner that suggests he'd like to have sex with his car?"

The contented expression on Dean's face as Kaz began to read popped into Sam's mind. Bobby was right; Dean looked less like the Living Sex God sizing up his next enthusiastic worshipper, and more like an elementary schooler hearing a favourite bedtime story from a beloved aunt. "I guess not," he sighed, turning back to the pile of books on the table.

"There doesn't seem to be much call for undoing this sort of thing," Sam had to agree with Bobby's initial summation. "There's plenty about tackling evil spells, or cursed objects, that turn humans into non-living objects, but, the other way around? Not much."

"Removin' the spark of life from somebody and changin' their physical form to something material and inert takes a powerful practitioner," Bobby reminded him, "But puttin' life into something that never had it to start with? And turnin' it human?" He shook his head. "I got a feeling that it would take more juice than a human could call up."

A few minutes later, Kaz poked her head into the study.

"Lunch will be ready in fifteen minutes," she announced, "You have to keep those brains fuelled up."

"How's Dean?" asked Bobby.

"Out like a light," she smiled fondly, "It's just a cold, I think, but it's hit him hard. He's let himself get run-down, and so, whammo."

Sam nodded. "We've been really busy for a number of weeks now," he agreed, "And when he starts to feel tired, he just goes into denial. 'I'm fine', he says, 'There's nothing wrong with me', he says, 'Don't be such a mother-hen, Francis', he says..."

"The boy refuses to recognize his own limits if he thinks there's a Hunt to be finished," Kaz commiserated.

"Tell me about it," moaned Sam, "He thinks he can drive through the night, then hit the ground running, then do a salt and burn, then head straight out of town and do it all again. Even Batman went home to sleep and change his socks occasionally, and he had Alfred to make the bed and do the laundry."

"The amount of sheer junk he ingests, it's no wonder his immune system throws up its lymphocytes in sheer despair from time to time," Kaz tutted. "As far as he's concerned, vitamins just happen to other people."

Sam looked non-plussed. "Er, how does a car know what lymphocytes are?" he asked.

"Oh, Sam," Kaz laughed her wonderful laugh, "The amount of time you spent reading in me, and the number of times you insisted that Dean listen to 'a really good bit', I had to pick up some of it! I remember the model lymphocyte you made for school, once," she related, "You spent weeks researching it, and planning it. You made it out of pink jello, with a green jello nucleus, and purple jelly beans for the mitochondria, and carefully assembled clusters of M&Ms for the polyribosomes..."

"You remember that?" Sam couldn't help but smile.

"I remember that you won first prize for your year level at the Science Fair," she told him, "And I also remember how annoyed you were when Dean came home after he'd snuck out to a bar to hustle pool, then entertained a young lady for the evening, then when he came home early in the morning he was tired and hungry, and he ate half of it for breakfast..."

"Oh, God!" Sam burst out laughing. "I tore him a new one for eating my winning project!"

"But he protested that it tasted delicious!" Kaz reminded him.

"And we finished eating the rest of it before we left there," Sam recalled fondly. "He was right, you know, I made a damned tasty lymphocyte. At least he waited until after the Science Fair to eat my project."

"Just as well," chortled Bobby, "The excuse 'The dog ate my homework' is lame enough, your teacher would've had a fit if you'd showed up to class and said 'I'm sorry, Miss, I can't submit my assignment, my big brother ate it'..."

"So, there will be no delicious model cells for lunch," she informed them regretfully, "But I'm sure I can manage something acceptable."

She insisted that they take a break, and eat lunch at the kitchen table.

"I'm afraid Bobby's cupboards are a little bare," she told them ruefully as she put down their sandwiches, "But we can pick up some groceries when we go shopping."

"Shopping?" echoed Sam, trying not to choke on a bite of sandwich.

"Well, of course!" she beamed, "I have to get some things for Dean's symptoms, and some more laundry detergent too – I am not blind to the state of your linen in this house, Bobby. I think it would be a good idea if you came with me, Sam."

"Er, yeah," agreed Sam hastily, not wanting to think about the trail of havoc a car-turned-human might leave if it tried to interact with the general public. A clueless angel could be bad enough. "I can do that. But, uh, what about Dean?"

"I think we can trust Bobby to mind him for a couple of hours," she nodded smilingly at Bobby, "Although if you really would prefer to stay here with him, I understand completely, and besides, I know what size socks and shorts you take... oh Sam, honey, chew your food..."

"I can definitely look after one sick idjit for a little while," Bobby cut in smoothly, as Kaz patted Sam on the back until his coughing fit subsided. "You can take the truck, since you're, ah, how shall I put it, transportationally differently abled for the moment?"

"Well, that's settled, then," she declared with satisfaction, "So, when you finish your lunch, Sam, and we can go." She began to eye the contents of Bobby's kitchen cupboards. "Don't forget to wash your hands after lunch. And visit the bathroom – we don't want to have to stop for you to pee against my back end. Oh, Sam, honey, chew your food..."

* * *

Ah, the blankies from 'Fanservice'. Bobby keeps them nice and clean and fluffy and ready for action.

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Huddling Under The Fluffy Blanket Of Their Choice for the Naptime Story of Life!


	8. Chapter 7

I have been asked whether, in the absence of Bobby, I would be a Samgirl or a Deangirl. My answer has to be: still, neither. Sam's sideburns and hair and music would just make me want to slap him, and Dean would refuse to get on the back of the bike (I pilot – co-pilot gets on, sits still and shuts up, and he wouldn't fit, anyway – the pillion seat of the SV is designed for boys to take their petite little girls for short trips; a strapping six-foot-one bloke would have his knees under his chin). Besides which, in either case it would be too close to kiddy-fiddling for me. The whole cougar thing is not for me. And I'm old enough... well, I'm old enough to be their car...

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

"Wake up, Gus!" called Kaz cheerfully, slapping the side of Bobby's truck as she and Sam prepared to depart.

"Gus?" queried Sam, sliding in behind the wheel.

"Oh, Mabel, his second owner, named him after her husband after he passed away," Kaz explained, "Said he was just like her old man: overweight, drank too much, but reliable, and comfortable, and never complained no matter she wanted him to carry home from a shopping trip." She frowned as the engine turned over sluggishly. "Oh, come on, you grumpy old thing," she wheedled, slapping the dash playfully, "You're not still pulling that 'My battery isn't holding charge properly' trick? You know Bobby doesn't believe that for a second..."

The truck chugged twice more, as if reminding Kaz that it was in fact a year younger than her, then coughed into a settled idle.

"Er, thanks... Gus," stuttered Sam, pulling the truck out of the yard and heading for town.

He stopped at a gas station first. "We like to stop here, and fill the tank when we use one of Bobby's vehicles," Sam explained, getting out and lifting the nozzle from the bowser, "Neither of us like freeloading."

"I'm glad we've stopped," nodded Kaz happily, "I'm a bit peckish."

"Well, they don't have much in the store here, just some candy," Sam pointed out, starting the pump, "But there's a good little café that we can stop at in town, it does really good coffee, and we can pick up a piece of pie for Dean when he's feeling better, and I'm sure you'll find someth..." his voice trailed off as his jaw dropped in astonishment.

Kaz had lifted the filler nozzle from the pump next to the one he was using, and was drinking directly from it.

Sam was too surprised to say anything for a moment. "Kaz!" his hissed urgently, looking around to see if anyone had noticed the middle-aged woman contentedly drinking gas straight from the pump. She held up a hand, as if to say 'Wait a minute', then finished her drinking, replaced the nozzle, and burped discreetly.

"Oh! Pardon my vapour lock," she smiled, taking a tissue out of her sleeve to dab delicately at her mouth. "I'll just go in and pay, shall I?"

"Kaz!" Sam yelped, setting off after her as she strode purposefully towards the store, where the kid behind the counter, who had been watching, stared open-mouthed.

Kaz selected a bottle of fuel conditioner from a rack, and put it on the counter. "Pumps three and four, and this, please," she smiled, handing over cash. Slowly, he took the money, and handed over her change. "Thank you, young man," she said. "Oh, I think you should probably tell the owner, you have water in that tank. Not a lot," she opened the bottle of conditioner and took a hearty swig, "But emough to put a taste in the fuel. This will sort me out, but you need to find out whether there's a leak somewhere before it gets worse."

"Er, Kaz," began Sam tentatively, "Perhaps we should, uh... go."

"I'll just go give Gus a shot of this," she waved the bottle at him, "He has a taste for it, you know. Daft old thing." She took another drink, then headed back out towards the truck.

"Did she..." the kid at the register gawped at her retreating form, "Did she... did I see her... drink gas?"

"Not exactly," explained Sam, smiling desperately, "My... aunt is a circus performer. Fire breather. She doesn't actually drink it, she kind of, you know, swallows it, then spits it out and ignites it. As her act. With her troupe. The Feisty Flaming Females."

"Oh," said the kid vaguely, still watching Kaz. "Does she always drink straight from the pump?"

"Not usually," Sam improvised, "But, uh, her usual, you know, gas-drinking can is in the dishwasher."

"What's with the fuel conditioner, then?" the kid wanted to know.

"She takes it for heartburn," Sam squeaked before he fled.

"Look, Kaz," he began, as he started the truck, "I think your, er, snack might've startled that guy. Humans don't normally drink gas straight from the pump."

Kaz suddenly looked mortified. "Oh, no!" she gasped. "How thoughtless of me! Sam, I am so sorry." She patted his arm. "I didn't mean to embarrass you. Where were my manners? I promise that next time, I will decant some decently into a fuel can, and use a straw or something..."

"No, no, no!" yelped Sam. "What I mean is, humans don't usually drink gas, ever! We don't run on gasoline, we run on, well, organic matter of biological origin."

"Gas is organic matter of biological origin," she pointed out, "I remember you reading out of a text book, and getting excited about how oil comes from long dead, compressed plants..."

"What I mean," Sam elaborated, "Is that humans run on organic biological matter that has been dead for a much, much, much shorter time. The shorter the better. Domesticated meat animals, and plants like vegetables and fruit and grains, stuff like that."

"Oh." Kaz frowned thoughtfully. "I don't think I've ever eaten that," she commented, "I've tried fuel with ethanol in it before. It's all right, although I don't prefer it..."

"Well, seeing as you're shaped like a human, I think perhaps that if you want to, er, refuel in public, you should try to do it like a human," Sam said firmly.

"All right then," Kaz agreed, "I would like to give it a try. I've seen how much Dean enjoys eating." She tucked the change from her payment unselfconsciously down the front of her shirt, as Sam tried not to stare.

"Er, where exactly did you get the money to pay for that?" he asked hesitantly.

"Oh, you'd be amazed at how much money ends up down there!" she laughed. "I've been on the road for more than forty years, Sam, that's a long time for a lot of change to go missing down the back of the upholstery!"

He couldn't help wonder at how coins got changed to notes, and whether there was some cosmic bank account somewhere that went with the whole car-to-human transmogrification. Maybe it was part of the spell that had changed her, all part of the capacity to 'look after' her boys. Maybe a previous owner really had just been that careless with serious cash.

All Sam knew for sure was that, no matter what he lost from now on, he was not going to search for anything down the crease of the seat ever again, because he would never be able to shake the feeling that he was groping down Kaz's cleavage.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Their first port of call was the pharmacy. Kaz made her way straight to the cold & flu items section, and frowned thoughtfully.

"Can I help you?" asked the silver-haired lady in the crisp blue smock.

"I need some cold meds," Kaz told her, "But I'm not sure what to get."

"Who do you need them for?" asked the pharmacist.

"They're for my brother, her... nephew," Sam interceded, "He's really sick, isn't he, Auntie Kaz?"

"Oh, he is terribly unwell," Kaz related to the pharmacist. "Bed-ridden."

"Well, the only way to cure a cold is to let the patient rest until they kick it," smiled the pharmacist, "But I'm sure that we can find some things to make him more comfortable. What are his symptoms?"

Kaz described Dean's symptoms in detail. "Well, he has a terrible sniffle, a runny nose, and a dreadful cough, although he's not bringing anything up at the moment. His throat is sore, too. He has a low grade fever, and the aches to go with it. And he's exhausted, poor thing."

"There does seem to be a bit of it about," said the pharmacist, "When did his symptoms begin?"

"A week ago," answered Sam, "But he just soldiered on, and refused to acknowledge that he was sick, no matter how bad he felt."

"Ah, the sick man in denial," nodded the pharmacist knowingly. "I know the type. Won't lie down until they drop from exhaustion, and then, they'll go on denying it, even though they're so tired and run down they can't stand up by themselves."

"Oh, yes, Dean is exactly like that!" exclaimed Kaz. "Why, last Monday, he could barely manage one round of sex, and this morning, he was banging away under Deirdre for less than twenty minutes when he nearly passed out..."

"I see," the pharmacist barely twitched an eyebrow, while her younger colleague behind the prescription counter stifled a titter. "Well, we have several medications that may help alleviate his symptoms..."

She described a number of remedies, and Kaz selected several, then asked about a powdered lemon drink mix. "Well, some folks like that one," the pharmacist confided, "But I'm a bit old fashioned about it – I much prefer a hot drink made with real lemon juice, a little honey, a little ginger, and a tot of rum. It tastes better, and while there's absolutely no medical rationale for it, I think it works better than the packet stuff." She smiled. "Unfortunately, we're not licenced, so I can't sell the ingredients here."

"We can pick up those things when we get the groceries," Kaz decided.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?" asked the pharmacist.

"Yes," Kaz answered brightly, "Where are your condoms, please?"

Sam made a strangled little noise as the pharmacist led them to another aisle. "Er, maybe we can let Dean get these for himself..." he stumbled.

"Nonsense," Kaz said dismissively, "You know what he's like, the second he feels better, he'll want to celebrate the only way he knows how."

"Yeah, well, he's kind of choosy about his, er, you know," Sam stumbled, waving at the packs of prophylactics as his face pinked, "He has his, uh, preferences, and, and..."

"I'm quite familiar with your brother's preferred type of condom, Sam," Kaz assured him, "God knows, he's used enough of them inside me."

The pharmacist didn't so much as twitch, whilst the younger woman behind the counter let out a stifled squeak.

Kaz perused the shelves, and selected a packet. "Do you have this in a larger pack size?" she asked.

"Not that brand, no," the older lady didn't turn a hair. Desperate to look anywhere else, Sam's wild eyes noted that her younger colleague was biting down hard on the sleeve of her smock. "But this brand is available in a 24-pack..."

"Oh, he doesn't like those," Kaz replied instantly. "Not since that incident when he was nineteen. You wouldn't remember it of course Sam," she smiled indulgently, "Oh, but I do. The first one slipped off, which happens sometimes, but when the second one actually broke, oh, the look of horror on his face..."

Sam made a stifled squeaking noise. The young woman slowly fell forward until her forehead hit the counter with a gentle 'thump'.

Kaz chose a packet, then some lube – "No, I don't like that one, it left stains on me last time; no, that one made my seat smell funny" – and the pharmacist asked if she needed anything else. "Yes," stated Kaz, turning to Sam, "We need to get some things for you, now. I know you don't like what your brother uses, and yours is so much longer..."

Sam felt his entire blood supply rush to his face, and sank onto a handy chair, where he put his head into his hands, let out a groan, and waited for the Earth to swallow him. He was vaguely aware of the younger pharmacist rushing out from behind the counter to the back of the store, a door slamming behind her. He told himself he was only imagining the muffled sounds of someone shrieking with laughter.

Kaz was crouched by his side immediately, anxiously feeling his forehead. "Sam, honey?" she asked, stroking his hair tenderly back from his face, "Are you all right?" He let out a strangled moan. "Oh dear," Kaz murmured, "I was going to get him to choose some shampoo and conditioner for himself, but maybe he's coming down with Dean's cold too..."

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Purchasing Jelly Beans For You At The Counter Of The Pharmacy Of Life!*

*By which I mean the confectionery. If 'jelly beans' is nowadays a slang term for some item of a risqué nature, such as a brand of coloured or flavoured condoms, I don't want to know about it.


	9. Chapter 8

I have just discovered that Down Under is now producing its own version of 'Jersey Shore', called 'The Shire' (apparently their brains are halfling-sized). It has become apparent that somebody in this country has cloned that Snooki creature. I am so ashamed of my people; poor fella my country. I will have to jump on a boat, and flee to New Zealand to seek cultural asylum...

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

"So, how's the boy doing?" asked Kaz as she came back inside, followed by Sam, who was loaded down with bags of groceries and looking slightly green.

"I could ask you the same thing," replied Bobby, taking in the colour of Sam's face and his shell-shocked expression, "But Dean is awake, and moanin' like a ghost from a B-grade horror movie."

"I'll just go check on him, then if he's up to it, I'll heat him some soup," she said, putting down the pharmacy bag. "Or maybe he'd just like a lemon drink." She gave Sam a concerned look. "I think we'd better keep an eye on Sam, too," she opined, a note of worry in her voice, "I thought he was going to pass out at the pharmacy, then he started on the rum on the way back."

Bobby turned his attention to Sam, who sank slowly into a chair and wore the expression of a man who has dangled over the edge of the abyss of Hell by his jockstrap. "So, er, how did the supply run go?" he asked evenly.

"Bobby," replied Sam, the thousand-yard stare going straight through the older Hunter, "I can never go back to that pharmacy again. Ever. I can never be in the grid square of that pharmacy again. In fact, it might be best if I just never go into Sioux Falls ever again..."

"Well, you're back here with supplies, all your limbs attached and no police poundin' on the door asking for ya, so it can't have been that bad," Bobby joked.

Sam described the stop at the gas station, then the dreadful ordeal of the pharmacy visit, in as much detail as he could bear to relate.

"Then she said we had to go get groceries, because you have hardly anything in the cupboards," he said hollowly, "And I said okay, because I was pretty sure it couldn't get any worse..."

"So, er, what happened?" pressed Bobby.

Sam turned a tortured expression on him. "It did," he replied.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam had been only too glad to get out of the pharmacy, clutching at the bag containing the shampoo, conditioner, soap-free skin wash ("I know how that cheap stuff can make you itchy, honey), some anti-fungal cortisone ointment ("Tinea is no laughing matter, Sam, you spend all that time on the road, and you do not launder your shorts often enough, what do you expect? You were squirming in your seat all the way back to Bobby's place"), chlorophyll/charcoal tablets ("Your brother has a point, sweetie, you can be pretty toxic after Mexican food – I don't need you scorching the upholstery with your gas when you're inside me") and packet of jelly beans ("Because you've been such a good boy!") that Kaz bought for him. He followed her, somewhat shell-shocked, as she headed for the supermarket.

On the way, though, she saw a store front that caught her attention:

**UNDERCUTTERS EXPRESS HAIRDRESSING**

**Come on in! No appt. necessary.**

"I think we've got time for this," she stated cheerfully, heading into the salon.

"Oh, er, okay," Sam said, following obediently, still in shock, "Uh, how about I go get us coffees or something while you get you hair done?"

"Oh, Sam, honey," Kaz laughed, "We're not here to get _my _hair done!"

"_What?" _he spluttered, as one of the hairdressers arrived at the front counter to serve them.

"This is my nephew Sam," Kaz explained, "And he needs to get his hair trimmed."

"No I don't!" Sam yelped, clutching his bag.

"Yes you do," Kaz countered, "Much longer and you'll need to put it into a pigtail, sweetheart."

"If it's just a trim, we can do that for you right away," said the obliging hairdresser, "Just come on through..."

"No, you can't!" yipped Sam.

"Yes she can," insisted Kaz, "Oh, he's always hated getting his hair cut," she explained to the hairdresser, gazing at her 'nephew' fondly, "Would you be happier sitting backwards on my lap, like Dean used to do for you?"

"That was when I was seven years old!" he burst out.

"Sam, I just want you to be comfortable," she told him soothingly, "And if you have to sit on me to do that, that's fine. It's okay," she reassured the slightly bewildered hairdresser, "He and his brother sit on me all the time, sometimes for hours, drinking beer and just watching the stars..."

"No we don't!" squeaked Sam.

"Yes you do!" smiled Kaz, "And I enjoy it too, you know, just as much as having the two of you bickering contentedly when you're both inside me. Now, come on through, Sam, it's just a trim." She took him by the elbow, and headed after the hairdresser.

"I don't want my hair cut," complained Sam, sounding like he was actually seven years old."

"Sam, it has to be done," said Kaz firmly, "You are starting to look decidedly shaggy, hon."

"No!" somehow, the Seven-Year-Old Within found the wherewithal to cut through the sheer shock of what was happening, and offer resistance. "And you can't make me!" he added, for good measure. "I'm bigger than you!"

Kaz fixed him with a doting smile. "Sam," she patted his arm affectionately, "I generate nearly 400 brake horsepower at the crank. I could tow ten of you and not even need low gear, and I can definitely haul one of you into a hairdresser's chair"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"So, er, what happened then?" asked Bobby.

"She did," replied Sam mournfully.

"I thought you looked a bit tidier," Bobby nodded, cocking his head. "Your legs are longer than hers," he observed, "You could've made a run for it."

"She'd probably just have reminded me that she has a tweaked V8," sighed Sam gloomily, "And that she's wearing sensible shoes. My ears are cold," he complained.

"It'll grow back quick enough," Bobby reminded him gruffly, "Grows like weeds, your hair." He peered into a bag of shopping. "At least we got plenty of supplies," he commented, starting to unpack, "Looks like she's plannin' on feeding a small army."

"Or just Dean, once he gets his appetite back," noted Sam.

"At least she didn't happen to anybody in the supermarket," commented Bobby.

"No," replied Sam, "Well, unless you count the guy with the trolley..."

"What guy with the trolley?" queried Bobby.

"The guy who was in a hurry," Sam answered, "On his way to a party or something, trolley full of beer and snacks. He was kinda rude about it, he wanted to get past, so he yelled at her and tried to ram his trolley into her."

"What happened?" asked Bobby.

"What would you expect to happen when a small appliance made of aluminium wire runs into nearly two tons of Detroit steel? It crumpled against her. _He _crumpled against her. Then he lay there on the floor, surrounded by broken beer bottles, and she just smiled, and, and, she ran over his foot."

"She ran over his foot with her trolley?" gawped Bobby.

"She ran over him with one of her sensible shoes. I think she broke his foot."

"Yeah, havin' a Classic run over your foot can do that," conceded Bobby. "Still, it serves him right, bein' so rude and all."

"Yeah." Sam opened the refrigerator and started putting items away. "And that kid who tried to pick her pocket, she grabbed him, and put one hand against his chest and pinned him to the shelf while she lectured him about honesty and self-respect. She was freaking him out; by the time the store detective came to investigate, his eyes were bugging out of his head and he was gasping like a fish out of water. Some sort of panic attack at being caught, I suppose."

"Sam," Bobby asked, "Have you ever been pinned to a wall, at the chest, by a car?"

"Er, no, can't say I have," conceded Sam.

"Well, I have, once," Bobby told him, "And if all that happened was that the kid's eyes bugged, he was doin' well." He smiled as fished a peaked cap out of the bottom of a bag; it had 'Hunters Do It With A Bang' on it.

"She thought you might like that," commented Sam, as Bobby tried on the hat. "She found one for Dean, too." He held up another hat. It said 'Mechanics Do It With Plenty Of Grease'."

"Did you get one too?" chuckled Bobby. "What does yours say? 'Bookworms Do It With The Bedside Light On'? 'Geeks Do It With A Hard Drive' 'Nerds Do It Over The Internet'?"

"Er, I didn't get a trucker hat," Sam explained a bit sheepishly. "I got something a bit different..." With a long-suffering expression, he pulled out a pale blue knitted beanie, with ear flaps and a cheerful pom-pom, and pulled it onto his head. "She picked this for me. After I complained about my ears being cold."

To his credit, Bobby did his best not to laugh. "Well, practical, that," he commented finally, "When the weather is cold. Sensible."

"She got me a pair of matching socks, too," sighed Sam, holding aloft the awful evidence.

Bobby cleared his throat carefully. "Yes, well," he said, "You'll be glad for those, next time you're holed up in some crappy motel with no heating and blankets as thin as paper. You keep your head and your feet warm, you keep the rest of you warm."

"It gets worse," sighed Sam, "She specifically found me a pair of matching shorts. Sky blue shorts. Thank God there wasn't a pair knitted in the same yarn." He peered into another bag. "Mind you, I think we now have enough socks and shorts to keep us going until we're in our sixties."

"Why don't you go check in with your brother," suggested Bobby, "Then we can get back to tryin' to figure out what the hell happened."

"Sounds like a plan," nodded Sam, taking off his hat and heading upstairs. As an afterthought, he grabbed one of the new boxes of tissues, and took it with him.

Dean was still in bed, letting out the occasional moan. He had a damp flannel laid across his forehead, and Jimi huddled against him for moral support. He gave Kaz a beseeching look as she coaxed him into taking some tablets, then proffered a small measure of cough syrup.

"It hurts to swallow," he said in a small wistful voice.

"I know, honey," she smiled, stroking his hair, "But it will make you feel better."

"That stuff tastes nastyyyyyyyy," Dean whined, wrinkling his nose.

"But it will help with your throat, and your cough," Kaz pointed out reasonably, "Which will mean that you'll be able to have some soup!"

"Don't want soup," Dean pouted, "I'm not hungry."

"Oh, that's a shame," she told him regretfully, "Because I bought the ingredients to make some apple tarts, and thought you might like some of those if you could manage soup okay..."

"I want soup!" he piped up, a hopeful look on his face before he broke out coughing, then sneezed.

Kaz turned to Sam, and gratefully took the new pack of tissues, pulling one out and holding to to Dean's nose. He honked into it obediently. "Thank you, Sam," she smiled up at him, "I'm just going downstairs to heat up some soup for your brother. As soon as he's taken his cough syrup."

She waggled the small cup again, and Dean reluctantly took it and downed it, pulling a melodramatically disgusted face. "They make that on the same processing line that makes rat poison," he muttered, collapsing back against his pillows. "How did your shopping trip go?" he asked.

"It was good," answered Sam, hoping his brother was too tired to press for details. "We got lots of stuff."

"Your brother was very helpful," Kaz patted Dean's arm reassuringly, "Although for a second there, I thought he was going to have a dizzy spell at the pharmacy..."

Dean's eyes became concerned. "You okay, Sam?" he asked, The Big Brother That Never Sleeps breaking through is sickness.

_No_, Sam thought,_ I am not okay, I am feeling thoroughly discombobulated after watching your humanised car drink gas from the pump, with a chaser of fuel conditioner, then I thought I was going to die of embarrassment when she stood there giving the pharmacist the impression that you're screwing your aunt, when she's not screwing me, while the hairdresser no doubt formed the view that we've got some weird BDSM threesome thing going on, and I've been Trimmed With Extreme Prejudice, then presented with a woolly hat that makes me look like a pre-schooler who's being dressed up before being allowed out to play in the snow, oh, and by the way, I have matching socks and shorts to go with that hat, although who she thinks I'm supposed to parade around in front of wearing matching socks, shorts, and my woolly hat, I just don't want to think about, possibly a member of a sub-committee of the BDSM club that the shopkeepers of Sioux Falls are by now convinced we all belong to, the Fluffy Fetish Faction perhaps, so since you ask, no, I am NOT okay..._

But he looked at his brothers anxious, flushed face, then smiled and answered,

"I'm fine, Dean, just a bit tired. I'll get an early night tonight."

They both did. After she cooked Bobby and Sam a delicious dinner, and coaxed Dean into eating some more soup (he didn't need any coaxing to down some of the small apple pastries she baked), Kaz chivvied Sam up to bed like a bossy bantam hen flapping after someone else's much larger chick, much to Bobby's amusement. Once they were both in bed, she brought in a tray with Dean's meds, and two steaming mugs.

Sam looked at her, confused, as she put one of the mugs in his hand.

"Oh, Sam," she smiled at him, ruffling his hair, "You didn't think I'd bring your brother a lemon drink and not make you one too, did you?"

He smiled back. "Thanks, Kaz."

After they'd finished their drinks, she read to Dean from his magazine for a little, then when he was snoring gently and Sam was yawning, she turned out the light.

"Night, boys."

Goodnight, Kaz."

"Snaaaaaaargh."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam woke up a couple of hours later from a strange dream, in which he was watching hundreds of blue socks dance in a field whilst a band of hairdressers played a waltz by clacking together different sized pairs of scissors. He realised that his brother's restlessness was what had woken him.

"You okay, Dean?" he asked.

"I'mb finde," snuffled Dean, shuffling again, "It's just coldb. Go back to sleebp."

Sam got out of his own bed, and pulled the blue duckie blanket from the top of the bedclothes.

"Well, warm up and stop fidgeting," he instructed, laying the blanket over Dean's bed, "You fidget really loudly."

"Sorry, bitdch," Dean said. "Thangks bro."

"Just get some rest, jerk," Sam told him. He was pretty sure he could hear Dean grinning in the dark.

* * *

Ermahgerd, it's fluffier than Sam's new blue hat...

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Wearing The Adorable Knitted Hat of Life!*

*If you want him to parade around in the matching socks and jocks, make sure the heating is turned up.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

The next couple of days passed quietly enough: Sam and Bobby continued to search for an explanation, and hopefully a fix, for what had happened to turn the Impala into a human, while Kaz dotingly looked after Dean as if he was a gravely ill child. She kept the soup and apple tarts going upstairs, and the coffee and sandwiches going downstairs, and somehow kept laundering, mending, and, to Sam's horror and Bobby's amusement, also found time to embroider the Winchesters' initials on all their new shorts.

Dean was eventually deemed by Kaz to be adequately recovered to be allowed out of bed. Wrapped in a dressing gown so old that Bobby had forgotten that it existed, he shuffled downstairs looking pale but much better than he had done, while Kaz hovered in concern like a parent watching a small child set off on the first bicycle ride with the training wheels removed.

"Big day for me," he smiled as he sat at the kitchen table, "I'm allowed to try a piece of bacon for breakfast today!"

"I wish we had some good news," sighed Bobby, "Sam and I have consulted every book I got that could be relevant, I've called up every person I think might know something, but the only thing we can find that's even vaguely analogous is the story of Pygmalion."

"Oooh! Oooh! Audrey Hepburn!" beamed Dean, "In the bath! In 'My Fair Lady'! She was totally hot." he winked at Kaz. "Just like you, Baby," he rumbled, with an attenuated version of The Killer Smile. Kaz tutted at him, and swiped at him with her dishcloth.

"Not that Pygmalion, ya idjit," Bobby rolled his eyes. "The original legend, from ancient Cyprus. Pygmalion carved a statue that came to life after he prayed to Aphrodite."

Sam gave his brother a disdainful look. "And I'm pretty sure that you haven't prayed to any ancient Greek deities recently, petitioning them to turn your inanimate object into a living woman," he sniffed.

"Of course not," agreed Kaz cheerfully, "The Living Sex God does not need divine aid to locate and attract hot women for frisky funtime." She smiled dotingly at Dean, and patted him on the shoulder. "Do you, honey?"

"Damned straight," Dean smirked.

"Well, it sounds like somebody's getting better," grinned Bobby.

"Meanwhile, we're no closer to figuring out what's happened," added Sam, digging into his pancakes. "These are really good, Kaz," he complimented her. "But I'm starting to feel a bit guilty about having you be so, well, domestic. Like a servant, or something. We'll get spoiled."

"Oh, garbage," she patted his shoulder, "Looking after my boys is my job! While I'm human, this is the best way to do it."

"Maybe we should try to figure out the motive," suggested Dean. He and Jimi both sat with similar expressions on their faces, doing synchronised hopeful sniffing, as rashers of bacon hit the hot pan. "Figure out why somebody would want to do this to my car."

"Somebody who wants to slow us down? Stop us from travelling?" suggested Sam. "Could that be it?"

Bobby shook his head. "That would be malevolent intent," he said, "She'd be tryin' to kill you. With a weapon, I mean, instead of saturated fat. Besides, if that's what they wanted to do, all they had to do was turn her into something else. Another inanimate object. Would've been a lot easier than this. No, this is not malevolent." He smiled at Kaz as she put breakfast in front of him. "It's benevolent. And it's very, very powerful. God knows why, but somebody channelled a lot of occult juice tryin' to do something nice for you."

"What, like do us a favour? Give us a reward?" queried Sam.

"That's what I'm thinking," nodded Bobby. "So, somebody who owes you? Somebody you've helped?"

"We've been really busy lately," Sam pointed out, "Done several jobs in the last few weeks, helped out a number of people. But none of them could've pulled of something like this."

"Wait a second," Dean broke in, "Sammy, our last job. Alexandra Finton. Remember her?"

"Elderly lady, her neighbour was hexing her out of jealousy about one of her cake recipes," Sam nodded.

"She wanted to feed us up, and mend our shirts," Dean persisted, "She said we needed looking after." He turned to look at Kaz. "She patted the car. She told you to look after us." He frowned. "Could she have done this?"

"She didn't give off any, you know, evil witchy vibes," Sam replied, "She was just a really nice, kind, little old lady."

Bobby frowned. "It's the ones who look harmless that you really have to watch out for," he warned. "Alexandra, Alexandra, that's a Greek name..."

"Do you think she might've, what, petitioned a Greek deity or something? On our behalf?" asked Sam.

" 'Finton' doesn't sound very Greek," Dean pointed out.

"She's a widow," Sam reminded him. "A lady of her age would've definitely taken her husband's name when she married. I'll check it out."

"After breakfast," Dean smiled hugely as Kaz put his plate in front of him. Jimi also grinned doggily as she slipped him the end of a rasher. "For the Living Sex God has returned to the land of the living, risen from his sickbed, and intends to enjoy his bacon." With a ceremonial flourish, he stabbed the rasher with his fork, tootled a brief fanfare, then shoved it into his mouth. "Hrrrrrrrm," he hummed in contentment, "Oh, that's so good, Kaz, you are as amazing as a cook as you are as a car. I think my tonsils just came..."

"Yup, definitely getting better," sighed Bobby. "For better or worse."

After breakfast (during which both Dean and Jimi deployed the Big Sad Eyes to solicit a second piece of bacon each), Sam started up his laptop whilst Kaz installed Dean under a blanket on the sofa with a hot water bottle and a lemon drink, and gave him permission to watch TV provided he rested and didn't disturb his brother. After half an hour, Sam had located the documentation he was after.

"Here we go," he announced, "Births, Deaths and Marriages. George Finton, son of Arthur Finton and Marjorie Finton, married Alexandra Arvanitis, daughter of Andros Arvanitis and Sophia Arvanitis, née Panagopoulos, wow, sixty-eight years ago next week. So, she was definitely from a Greek background." He smiled. "And it's her ninetieth birthday today!"

"At this point, I'd say she's your best bet," Bobby opined. "Her intention wasn't evil; if you ask her about it, she'll probably be straight up with you, and help you undo it."

"It's only a few hours back there," Sam pointed out, "We might as well head back, and check it out."

"Dean isn't ready to go back to work yet," announced Kaz firmly, "He only just got up today."

"I'll be fine," Dean countered, "I can eat bacon again, that means I'm better!"

"She's right, bro," Sam back Kaz up, "There's no point us hitting the road, just to have you relapse."

"I won't relapse!" griped Dean.

"No, you won't," stated Kaz, "Because you're staying right here until you're properly recovered."

Dean started to argue, but Sam cut him off. "Dean, your car generates nearly 400 brake horsepower at the crank," he told his brother, "She could tow ten of you without even needing to use low gear. She could definitely haul just one of you back to bed. Do you really want that?"

Dean's eyebrows shot up, as Kaz smiled dotingly at him.

"Sam," he began slowly, "Have you been reading Baby's manual?"

"I can go," Bobby announced. "It's not that far from here, and I have a certain amount of experience in dealing with _magissas_..."

"You sly dog, you," grinned Dean, as Sam humphed in disgust.

"...Because I know a few ladies of Greek ancestry who practise the Craft," Bobby went on, with his own frown at Dean, "Who have in the past been of help when I'm dealin' with something from that occult neck of the woods. They network, you know. They probably run the world behind the scenes, the way they run their families out in the open."

"So, the conspiracy cranks have it all wrong, then: it's not aliens, Zionists, the Illuminati, the World Bank, arab-fascists, Masons, Facebook or McDonalds - it's really Greek grandmothers?" guffawed Dean.

Bobby fixed him with a hard stare. "My advice to you, boy," he growled, "Is that you never under-estimate the power of a little old lady with a black dress, a beard, and a knittin' bag. You will come off second best." He stood up. "Anyway, I'll be presentable. I'll wear a pressed shirt, and all my hats have been washed."

"Just be careful what you say," instructed Dean, "A lonely old widow, don't let her snare you into getting married, or something."

"Idjit," muttered Bobby, as he went to get ready to leave.

They waved him off shortly afterwards. Dean took a few moments to say hello to Deirdre before Kaz shooed him back inside, telling him that he was in no condition yet to be crawling around underneath uncooperative cars, and with a resigned expression, he obediently made his way back inside.

Reinstalled on the sofa, Dean alternated between watching car racing or Dr Sexy reruns and dozing, whilst Sam kept at the research. Kaz kept up the supply of lemon drinks, snacks, decongestant and tissues. Bobby called back just as she was preparing to serve up lunch.

"Bobby, where are you?" asked Sam, flicking his cell to speaker. There was a definite buzz of conversation in the background.

"Are you at a bar?" grinned Dean.

"I'm at Alexandra Finton's house, ya idjit," replied Bobby, "And quite a few of her friends are here... oh, _efkharisto_, Yaya Arvanitis, I love dolmades, these look very good..."

"You're using her maiden name?" Sam asked.

"No, that's her sister, who never married," Bobby explained between munches. "Very interesting lady. Like I said, quite a few friends and family here... Oh, hello again, Yaya Coumbaris, well, just a little more, I have to drive home... you brew and distil it yourself? Mmmm, amazingly smooth..."

"I warned you, Bobby," cautioned Dean, "If she likes doing 'favours' for people, don't let her try to pair you up with her single sister, I know the type..."

"There's no danger of that, chucklehead," Bobby gruffed at him, "Because... oh, _yste poly kaly_, Yaya Prassinos, your tiropita is delicious, do you make your own pastry? You are a woman of many talents, madam..."

"Bobby, are you in the middle of a party of Greek _magissas_?" asked Sam anxiously.

"Don't worry, Sam," chuckled Bobby. "The only danger I'm facin' is being stuffed until I'm too fat to get back behind the wheel to come home. It's an elderly-Greek-lady thing. They think that single men of any age need looking after, and feeding up. Wow, that home-made ouzo packs a punch. Oh, it was wonderful, Yaya Andronikos, but I'm not sure I could fit in another piece... well, just a small one, perhaps... oh, delicious, is there cinnamon in the syrup?"

"Bobby," Dean shook his head in amusement, "You're supposed to be finding out if Yaya Finton did some sort of spell on my car, not being the life of the party."

"The general consensus seems to be that it's exactly the sort of thing that Alexandra would do," Bobby confirmed, "Known for her Talent with that sort of thing. And I've had a look in her grimoire. It fits our theory."

"Well, find the birthday girl and ask her to undo it," said Dean promptly.

Bobby sighed. "This isn't a birthday party for her, Dean. It's a wake. It's a wake for Alexandra Finton. She was an elderly lady; she died of natural causes yesterday."

* * *

The bunny is whispering, but has a decision to make, so I'll ask the Denizens for their preference:

Who should help here, Cas or Crowley?

Reviews are the Delicious Greek Pastries Served To You By The Doting Yaya Of Life!

What?

No, you don't need a Winchester with that. Just the pastries. Or maybe some galaktobouriko. Seriously, you have enough galaktobouriko, you don't need a Winchester...

Oh, all right.

Delicious Greek Pastries Served To You By The Winchester Of Your Choice In The Living Room Of Life. (How you get any excess syrup off them is up to you.)


	11. Chapter 10

The bunny has spoken!

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

"As Bobby would say: balls," pronounced Sam.

"Not the news you wanted, then?" asked Kaz, as the Winchesters sat down to their lunch.

"Well, the bad news is, the lady who in all likelihood cast the spell died yesterday," explained Dean. "The good news is, Bobby is spending the afternoon surrounded by ladies who want to feed him up, and 'take care of him', so he might not be home tonight..."

"Dean!" snapped Sam.

"I'm just sayin'," Dean defended himself. "Just because a man's a widower, doesn't mean he has to live like a monk. Should I reach his age, I certainly intend to continue to dance the mattress mambo, the horizontal hula, the frisky funtimes fandango with suitably agreeable women..."

"_Dean!" _yelped Sam.

"And if one of 'em happens to be up for some informed consenting Special Cuddles, then I say he should go for it. Provided her beard isn't any longer than his, of course..."

"_DEAN!" _shouted Sam, with a searing Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "Shut! Up!"

"Just because you're happy to let yours shrivel up and drop off as you get older," muttered Dean, turning back to his lunch.

"We'll see what he has to say when he gets back," Sam glared at his brother, "He's gonna ask around, see if any of her friends might be able to help, but he doubts it."

"Don't worry, Kaz," Dean reassured her, "We'll figure something out. And in the meantime, you are spectacularly wonderful just as you are." He sank his teeth into his grilled ham and cheese. "Mmmmmmm, this is good. Are there any of those little apple pastries left?" he added plaintively.

"I have every faith in you," she told them when she headed back to the kitchen with their dishes.

"And I have every faith in your appetite," sniped Sam. "You are definitely getting better."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

When Bobby returned late that night, the news wasn't good. Alexandra's friends and sisters had been sympathetic, but confirmed that it wasn't something any of them could undo.

"Seems like she did pull the Pygmalion trick," Bobby consulted his notes, "Not something your average _magissa_ could pull off. She was good at what she did, and good with what she did."

"So, does that mean we have to petition Aphrodite to undo it?" asked Sam.

"Ha! Good luck with that," Bobby snorted humourlessly. "How often do you think gods and goddesses do what humans ask them to, even humans who are their devout worshippers? It was only Alexandra's power and standing in the Craft that let her pull this off. If we tried it, it would just be like so much background white noise. It would be like tryin' to shout to someone across town in a hurricane."

"It's late. Everybody should be in bed," announced Kaz firmly, eyeing Dean. "Dean especially. He's still sick, and very tired, but insisted on waiting up for you, Bobby."

"I'm not tired!" protested Dean with a huge yawn.

"Yes you are," Bobby chuckled, "And so am I. I call bedtime. We can't do anything tonight – we get some rest, then start again fresh tomorrow."

The household retired, with Kaz bringing them hot chocolate as a nightcap. Sam marvelled at how compliant Dean was as she dosed him with his evening meds, then tucked the bedclothes around him as she wished them both goodnight. Dean was snoring gently as she turned out the light.

Bobby finished his chocolate, but couldn't sleep. He tossed, turned, and pounded his pillow into submission, but his brain refused to shut off. It was always like that when something was affecting his boys; his mind just wouldn't stop worrying at the problem, like a Rottweiler with a particularly delicious burglar.

A goddess. They'd only gone and got their car... animated? Humanified? He didn't even know what the correct word was. But they'd had it done to their car by a damned goddess. How could humans tackle that sort of intervention?

They couldn't, he realised. As Dean would say, they were going to need a bigger boat.

He hauled himself back out of bed, and stiffly sank to his knees, putting his hands together.

"Now I lay me down to sleep,  
The boys out cold without a peep,  
I pray for help to Castiel  
To help undo a potent spell

That has transformed Dean's much loved car,  
Cast by a dear old _magissa.  
_Instead of panels, engine, wheels,  
She now has twin-set, and low heels.

Dean's beloved Chevrolet  
Is walkin' round on legs all day,  
Transformed by that well-meaning mage  
To lady of a certain age.

It hasn't been a nasty trick –  
She's looking after Dean. He's sick,  
He has a cold, but she's been there  
To soothe his fever, stroke his hair

And general'y fuss over him.  
She even took Sam for a trim,  
Which was a most impressive feat,  
To get the Sasquatch lookin' neat.

It now transpires this spellcast mess  
Was worked by asking a goddess,  
She asked the help of Aphrodite –  
Too much power for us, allrighty,

So I hope that you can aid  
Our quest to undo this upgrade  
To human form, 'cause Sam and Dean  
Need transport from their old machine,

She is their wheels, she is their home,  
Their family made of steel and chrome,  
And through the Hunt and all mayhem  
I know she'll still look after them."

He paused briefly.

"And if before it's done I die,  
Tell Kaz I said she makes great pie.  
Amen."

He shuffled back into bed, and managed to nod off.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Long after Sam had bounced out of bed and headed downstairs, Dean was still huddled under the covers. Kaz sat next to him, a hand on his shoulder.

"How are you feeling, Dean?" she asked solicitously.

"Nrrrrrrrg," went Dean.

"I told you, you should've gone to bed earlier last night," she chided gently, feeling his forehead. "You got yourself overtired. Do you feel sick?"

"Headache," he moaned, his face screwing up in discomfort.

"Well, why don't you stay here in bed for a while," she told him, stroking his hair, "Get a little more sleep, and I'll bring you a lemon drink when you wake up."

Gradually, the moaning subsided, and his face relaxed. If Sam had been there, he probably would've made some comment about cats, and waiting to see if Dean would start purring.

"Is that better?" Kaz asked.

"Mmmhmmmm," replied Dean with a small smile, not even opening his eyes.

He must've dozed off for a bit, because he gradually became aware that he was awake again, warm and comfortable, and his headache was backing off. The reassuring presence sitting behind him was still there, and it gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling that he'd never admit to, to know that she was there, wanting to make him feel better.

"Mom used to do that," he told her in a quiet voice, "The hair stroking thing. When I was sick."

The weight behind him shifted slightly, and the hand began gently carding through his hair again. He let out a small sigh.

"I think it was just the fact that she was there," he sighed, letting his eyes close, "And cared about me, and wanted me to feel better." There was comfortable silence as he let himself relax into the touch, sliding gently back towards sleep. "I think it worked," he mumbled with a little smile, as warm darkness reached out to enfold him, "My headache's gone..."

"I am gratified that I was able to do something effective to help alleviate the symptoms of your illness, Dean," said a serious, gravelly voice behind him.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They heard the outraged shrieking from the kitchen.

"_GYAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" _came the strangled, screeching cry, interrupted by coughing, then followed by a solid thumping sound. _"CAAAAS! PERSONAL! SPACE!"_

Exchanging bewildered looks, Bobby and Sam headed upstairs, Kaz behind them.

Dean was a bug-eyed, panting, shrieking bundle of tangled bedclothes and thrashing limbs on the floor. Castiel stood with his head cocked, gazing mildly at the outraged man on, who tried to cover himself with his pink bunny blankie.

"My apologies," intoned the angel, as Kaz tutted and moved forward with Sam to help Dean up.

Dean was having none of it. "Gaaaaaaaah!" he went again, clutching his pink blankie around himself.

"God's tits!" yapped Bobby, "What the hell is goin' on here?"

"Creepy angel!" gibbered Dean, glaring at Castiel, "Creepy angel creeping! Creepy, pervy, creepy angel! Pervy creepy angel! Creeping!"

"Dean, honey, calm down," soothed Kaz, seating him on Sam's bed, while Sam wrestled the bedclothes into submission and began to remake Dean's bed, "It's just Castiel, he's come to visit you."

"He's come to violate me!' shrieked Dean, flapping a hand at Castiel in agitation, "Bad touch! Bad touch! Creeeeeeepyyyyyyy!" He subsided into another coughing fit, as Kaz patted him on the back.

"Hello Bobby, hello Sam," said Castiel. "I am sorry, Dean," he turned back to the older Winchester, "It was not my intention to startle you."

"Er, Cas," began Sam, "What did you do?"

"He touched my hair," muttered Dean, glaring daggers at the Angel of the Lord.

"He touched your hair?" echoed Sam.

"I touched his hair," confirmed Castiel.

Bobby fixed Dean with a look of disbelief. "So, you're screamin' like the Prom Queen who feels a hand up her dress, and we come runnin' up here and find you screaming violation, because he touched your _hair_?"

Dean squirmed a bit. "He did it in a really creepy way," he pouted.

"Again, I offer my apologies," said Castiel, "But you intimated that you enjoyed the sensation, and because you were feeling unwell, I only wished to..."

"Gaaaaaaaah!" Dean wailed, clutching at Kaz, "He's creeeeeepyyyyyyy!"

"Dean, calm down, sweetie," she told him gently but firmly, putting an arm around him. Dean let out another distressed noise, and buried his face in her shoulder. She tutted at him, and began to stroke his hair again.

Castiel looked confused. "I thought that such an action was deemed 'creepy'," he queried.

"Not when she does it," came the grumpy, muffled reply.

"Just ignore Miss Melodrama there," Bobby rolled his eyes, "He's been a burr under the saddle since he got sick..." Dean extended on arm, and flipped him off. "Thank you for coming, Castiel. As you can see, we got ourselves a problem." He jerked a thumb at Kaz. "She has fewer wheels and more limbs than usual."

Castiel stared at Kaz with his Patented Eye-Sex Stare Of Doom briefly, while she shushed Dean. "You are correct in your surmise," he told Bobby, "This is the work of Aphrodite. Deities as a rule rarely grant requests made to them by mortals, but occasionally, a powerful and moving request may capture their attention. Aphrodite does have a bit of what I suspect you would call 'a soft spot' for altruistic requests."

"Well, can you undo it?" asked Bobby. "It's not that we don't like her like this, she's been just wonderful, lookin' after Dean, doin' the laundry and the cookin'..."

"Dragging unwilling victims to their doom in the hairdresser's lair," muttered Sam.

"...But it aint proper," Bobby finished, with a quick glare at Sam. "She's their car. The boys need their transport, and their home."

Castiel did his Diagnostic MRI Stare thing again. "No," he announced finally, "I cannot undo this. I may be Sheriff of Heaven," he added with a small smile, "But I am not God, and I am not a god."

"Balls," humphed Bobby, deflating visibly.

Sam sank down onto the bed he was making. "We're screwed," he sighed plaintively. "No offence, Kaz," he added quickly, and she smiled at him, "But... well, it looks as though we may have to start looking for another car. One that can accommodate three people." He smiled briefly. "We've never been on the road for long with a, uh, female relative. It could take a little bit of adjustment to get used to life with Auntie Kaz looking after us. For a start, we'll have to book two rooms..."

"Nonsense," smiled Kaz, "I am perfectly at home being your home, remember. I actually like to listen to your arguing, because I know that it's how you express your affection for each other."

Castiel nodded. "I have noticed them do that," he told her, "And while I can recognise the context, I have never gained a good understanding about how being rude to each other somehow demonstrates brotherly love."

"Understanding it isn't important, so long as you recognise it," she said, helping Dean sit up and holding a tissue for him to blow his nose into. "Some of my fondest memories are of nights spent on the road, in the middle of nowhere, having these two inside me, bickering away about who gets the front and who gets the back..."

Sam suddenly wheezed and coughed. "Oh, Sam, honey," Kaz asked in a concerned voice, leaning over to feel his forehead, "You're not getting it too, are you?"

Bobby shook his head. "First thing we gotta do," he muttered, "Is teach you to stop thinkin' like a passenger vehicle..."

"Alternatively, you could ask Aphrodite to undo this enchantment," suggested Castiel.

"Considered that," Bobby told him, "But we can't generate the juice. That would take a powerful spell to get her attention, then convince her to do it. We just don't have the know-how, the background, or the power to do that."

"Not from here, no," Castiel conceded. "But I was thinking more of a personal visit."

Three pairs of eyes bugged at him. "You mean...:" breathed Sam.

"Yes," Castiel confirmed. "If you wish it, I can make arrangements for us to visit Aphrodite."

After the idea sank in, Bobby nodded. "Okay," he agreed, "It sounds like it's our only option. If you could tee that up, Castiel, we would be very grateful.

"Then I shall do so, and return when arrangements are in place." He turned back to Dean. "Dean, I am truly sorry to have startled you when I arrived," he intoned seriously.

"It's okay," Dean told him, "Just don't do it again."

"But now that I am here, I can heal you of the viral infection that is causing your current illness," the angel went on.

Dean looked from Cas, to Kaz, then back again, and thought about soup, lemon drinks, fluffy blankies and bedtime magazine readings. "It's okay, Cas," he assured the angel, "I'm nearly better, and Kaz has it under control."

* * *

If you're going to leave a review without logging in, don't forget to put your name in the top bit where the default is 'Guest', so I know who's out there...

Reviews are the Fun of Sneaking Up On The Winchester Of Your Choice And Touching His Hair In The Bedroom Of Life!


	12. Chapter 11

Curses; Real Life is kicking me in the shins, and that damned bunny has clammed up. I keep telling everybody, plot bunnies are eebil...

Hey, what the hell's going on in here? No, no, no, don't crowd around them like that, you'll frighten them! Hear that squeaking sound? The one that sounded like 'Meeeeeep!' That means they're scared. Oh, for crying out loud... all right, all hair touchers, please stop pawing at them, and form two orderly queues. There will be a 30-second time limit, then you have to go to the back of the line again.

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**Chapter Eleven**

Over the next two days, Kaz continued to ply Dean with hot drinks, comfort food and acceptably non-creepy soothing, so that when he started chafing at his confinement, she pronounced him recovered enough to go outside and start work on Deirdre the Uncooperative Pontiac again ("But if I find you overtaxing yourself, it's straight back to bed for you," she added sternly, leaving the threat of 400 brake horsepower hanging in the air).

He was under the hood, coaxing the starter motor from its seating when there was a quiet _fwop_ of displaced air and a subtle flap of trench coat.

"Hello, Dean," said Castiel, appearing right next to Dean in exactly the same posture, bent over the engine. "What are we doing?"

Dean let out a long-suffering sigh. "I am removing at Deirdre's starter motor," he answered, "While you are invading my personal space." He set the wrench to the last bolt, and discovered that it was stuck. "Great, just great. You've startled Deirdre now. And we were doing so well. I swear, Cas, I will put a bell on your collar." He gave the greasy housing a gentle pat. "It's okay, sweetheart, he's just a clueless angel, he didn't mean to frighten you..."

"My apologies," intoned Castiel gravely, stepping back and straightening. "I have come to tell you that we have an invitation to visit Aphrodite as part of an inter-pantheon goodwill mission."

"That's great," Dean replied, putting down Deirdre's hood and promising her that they'd pick up where they'd left off just as soon as he could, "Let's get the others, and go."

Castiel gave him a slightly disapproving look. "You cannot go dressed like that," he said, indicating Dean's grease-stained shirt and mud-smeared jeans.

"Yeah, I guess I should clean up a bit," Dean conceded, wiping his hands on his pants and heading for the house. "Come on, I'll change my shirt, and we can go. This will only take a minute."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"But I shaved yesterday!" Dean protested an hour later, as Kaz propelled him gently but firmly back into the bathroom after his shower. He wore the same bewildered expression that Jimi had worn when marched to the bath.

"And you will shave today," she told him pleasantly, "While I choose your outfit, so that you will be as presentable as possible. You are going to meet a goddess, Dean, to ask her to do something for you. You don't want to offend her by turning up, looking grubby."

"Chicks dig stubble," he protested.

"Aphrodite is not a chick, Dean," Sam pointed out, fiddling with his own shirt, "She's a goddess. Like Kaz said, we don't want to offend her. And we're going as part of a, well, a diplomatic mission, so we don't want to embarrass Cas, either."

"That's right," nodded Kaz, "So, Dean, you shave, while I do your brother's hair."

"_What?"_ yelped Sam.

"I'm on it," grinned Dean.

"I feel naked again," muttered Bobby later, straightening his tie as he peered sadly at his neatly-combed and completely hatless head in the mirror.

"My vessel is completely clothed, as indeed are you, Bobby," Castiel commented sympathetically, "And yet, I believe that I have some understanding of what you mean." He looked almost wistfully at Kaz, who was ironing his coat. Jimi whined in solidarity, and pawed briefly at the pressed bandana around his neck.

"My ears are cold," complained Sam, "And this feels funny."

"Serves you right for having such girly hair," sniggered Dean, "Would you like a pretty ribbon on your ponytail before we go?"

"Shut up," mumbled Sam.

When they were deemed suitably preened, primped and presentable, Kaz took a moment to adjust Castiel's tie, then pronounced herself satisfied. "There," she said, beaming at them, "She won't be able to resist a request from a group of such handsome men!"

"Let's hope that's the case," sighed Bobby, "Okay, Feathers, let's go be diplomatic."

Travelling by what Dean called 'AngelAir' was much quicker than the time they'd gone to visit a Greek god with Crowley (and considerably quicker, since Castiel didn't take several wrong turns on the way as the King of Hell had done). There was an extended moment of disorientation and a sensation of _sideways_, then...

They were standing in a carefully manicured garden, which was situated among fields of waving grain at the foot of a mountain. In the centre of the garden stood a well-appointed Greek villa. A strange clanking noise, accompanied by a rasping chuffing sound, started moving towards them.

"Er, does anybody else hear that?" asked Sam.

"Sounds like an excited push mower," opined Dean. "Or maybe a very small steam engine with an asthma problem."

As the source of the noise rounded the low hedge, they saw that the clanking and chuffing was coming from a very odd-looking pair of large dogs. As they approached, it became apparent that they were made entirely out of copper and bronze. They bounded up to the visitors cheerfully, making their strange mechanical woofing noise, their jointed tails wagging like overwound metronomes. Jimi trotted forwards to sniff noses with the slightly larger mechanical dog, then dropped into a play bow.

"Ippos! Galea!" called a feminine voice, "You wretched creatures! Come back here this minute! Oh!"

A middle-aged woman, sensuously voluptuous of figure and timelessly beautiful of face, rounded the building. She was wearing a formal-looking gown of a sheer, wafting fabric with an ornate girdle that was the epitome of flattering accessorising. The girdle was a work of art, and clearly only worn as ornamentation: the figure wearing it required absolutely no lifting, separating, enhancing, formfitting, maximising, minimising or controlling. Although the outfit technically covered her, in fact it seemed to reveal a lot and conceal very little. The overall effect was a breathtaking dichotomy of dignity and come-hither wantonness that would've made Dita von Teese burst into tears, hand back her corset and decide to spend the rest of her life designing flurqas (a cross between a flannel shirt and a burqa, marketed to oppressed women looking for something warm and practical, and rednecks who like the idea of wearing a mobile hunting blind, or just hiding the results of several generations of inbreeding from prying eyes).

"Dean," muttered Bobby under his breath, "Shut your mouth, boy, you'll catch flies."

"I am so sorry," she apologised in a voice like rich honey sliding down two perfect and highly suggestive globes of peach ice-cream, "I didn't realise they were out. Ippos! Ippos! Oh, there'll be no stopping him now," she sighed, "He was made with his mainspring too tight and his escape wheel too small. It makes him overly energetic, I'm afraid."

"He looks to me like he's just behavin' in a very dog-like fashion," grinned Bobby, watching the metal dog and the mortal one begin a tug of war with a stick.

"My husband will be pleased to hear that," she smiled wryly, "He is so very keen on authenticity in his creations. Oh, but where are my manners?" She held out a hand to Castiel, the simple gesture performed with a sensuality more usually associated with lap-dancing than formal greetings. "I am Aphrodite, Lady of the Foam, Goddess of Love and Affection, and this is my realm. Welcome to my home."

"I am Castiel, an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven," Castiel said formally, "And I thank you for agreeing to receive us. These are the humans of whom I spoke." He introduced his companions. "This is Bobby Singer, a Hunter and a Man of Knowledge, this is Sam Winchester, a Hunter and a scholar, and this is his brother.."

"Dean Winchester," breathed Aphrodite, her brilliant smile matched only by the beaming expression on Dean's face. "A Hunter, The Righteous Man, and the Living Sex God."

"_What?" _squeaked Sam and Bobby simultaneously, while Kaz looked on with a doting smile.

"Oh, yes, your ardent exploits are known to me," she laughed in a voice that tinkled like silver sunlight as she took Dean's hand in greeting. "How could I fail to notice such... enthusiastic and sincere worship of all that I represent?" She patted his hand. "I feel as though I have already met you," she said throatily, gaving him a look that would melt the knees, resolve and possibly the sackcloth of the most determinedly celibate religious hermit.

The Living Sex God recovered almost immediately. "Nah," he drawled with studied casualness, "If that was the case, I would definitely remember you." His eyes travelled up and down her form. "All of you."

"Dean!" Sam hissed, watching in horror as the Killer Smile slid into place on his brother's face, "She's a goddess! A _married _goddess!"

"Oh, I have had many husbands," Aphrodite said airily, with a dismissive wave of her other hand. "Some of them have been my own. The 'arrangement' with Hephaestus? An administrative process put in place by Zeus." She sighed most attractively. "My 'consort' spends so much time in his workshop, I rarely see him anyway. It's more like having another pet than a husband; I'm practically widowed. But he does make me such lovely things," she stroked her delicate fingers across her ornate girdle in a gesture that would be deemed too erotic for a X-rated porn film. "But let us go in, and you can tell me what concerns you, Castiel."

"I thank you," began Castiel, "I come reluctantly, for I feared that attention to this human matter might be beneath you."

"Really?" she turned large, questioning eyes on them. "Does that concern you, Dean?" she asked, "Do you come reluctantly, fearing that you are beneath me?"

The Killer Smile cranked up a notch. "I think," the Living Sex God didn't miss a beat, "That if I was beneath you, I would experience no reluctance in coming at all..."

Kaz patted Sam on the back as he suddenly had some sort of choking, coughing fit.

Aphrodite's laughter was as warm and rich as chocolate sauce deployed for erotic purposes. "Let us go in. Come with me, Dean." She twined Dean's arm with her own, and led them into the house.

"Dear God, I hope he doesn't try to," wheezed Sam.

"God's tits," breathed Bobby. "Well, goddess's tits, technically this time, I suppose..."

"It bodes well that she is well-disposed towards Dean," commented Castiel, "The deities of this pantheon can be capricious, by turns benevolent or petty, and very human-like in their conduct towards each other and mortals. This should help when raising his problem."

"If you ask me," muttered Bobby, watching as the goddess leaned on Dean's arm to share some private comment, "His 'problem' isn't what she's intent on raisin'."

Sam and Jimi both whined with trepidation as they followed inside.

* * *

Reviews are the Beautifully Presented Winchester Of Your Choice Joining You In The Double Entendre Of Life!

Hey, thirty seconds, I said! Come on, let somebody else have a turn...


	13. Chapter 12

Yes, you may get into both hair-touching lines. Yes, you may return to the end of either line as many times as you want. Or until they start to cry.

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**Chapter Twelve**

Aphrodite's residence was as sumptuously appointed as befitted a goddess's abode. The décor was simple but lush, and surprisingly discreet; it wasn't until Sam examined one of the decorative wall edgings closely that he realised what the motif actually was, and blushed.

The ambiance of dignified luxury was disrupted somewhat by the sounds of scuffling, arguing, flapping, and discordant twanging.

"Give it back!" demanded a strident voice, as others laughed. "Give it back right now!" _twang twong twang_ "So help me, if you don't give that back, I'll..."

Four teenaged boys in tunics came zooming through the air into the large room, wings flapping, as three of them tossed a small golden lyre around between them. The one who looked to be eldest wore an expression like thunder.

"Give it back!" he yelled, punching a smaller boy as the younger one tossed the instrument to one of his collaborators.

The smaller boy flailed at him with a length of vine. "What are you going to do?" he grinned at the angry face, "Sing at me? Oooooh, I'm scared!"

"No, no, anything but that!" gasped the one who'd caught the lyre theatrically. "Not another love lay, we'll all fall about crying!" He plucked artlessly at the lyre, and affected to sing. "O dearest who does scorn my love, _twang twong twing_ I long to..." he paused thoughtfully. "What can I long to do that rhymes with 'love'?" he asked.

"I long to slap you with a glove?" suggested the boy with the vine.

"I long to give you a hearty shove?" suggested the other lyre thief.

"I long to see you got rid of?" the smallest boy added.

"I long to shoot you from above!" declared the other.

"Give – it – BACK!" snarled the hot lyre's apparent owner, lunging for the would-be composer, who darted out of the way. "You idiots!" he hissed, "I'll have to spend the rest of the afternoon tuning it again!"

"Boys!" called Aphrodite sternly. The four winged youths seemed to notice the room's other occupants for the first time, and paused in their shenanigans.

"Oh, hello Mother," said the one with the looted lyre, "We didn't hear you come in, with your company." He cocked his head in a gesture remarkable reminiscent of Castiel when confused. "Hmmm, three mortal men, and one of Yahweh's children. Are they a present from Yahweh, Mother?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Only that one looks a bit, well, venerable..."

"Thank you so much," muttered Bobby grumpily.

"That one's quite pretty, isn't he?" another pointed to Dean, and nudged a compatriot. "Looks a bit like Adonis. Remember him?"

"Yes," the third tapped his chin, "Father castrated him. But he had such a lovely singing voice for that short time afterwards, before he died."

"He wasn't singing, you fool," sighed the apparent oldest with an eye-roll that came naturally to teenagers anywhere in any creation, "He was moaning. Because he was bleeding to death. On account of having his testicles torn off by a wild boar. Which was probably Father playing dress-ups."

"Really?" the instrument purloiner looked surprised. "Well, he was surprisingly musical in his death throes. More tuneful than you." He strummed the lyre a couple of times. "Ohhhh OOOOH ohhhhh, I've had my balls torn off, Ohhhh OOOOOH ohhhhh, it hurts now when I cough..."

"That one looks like Boutes, the Argonaut," the youngest opined, indicating Sam, "He has the same hair, even. Oh, look, and the same expression that Boutes wore when he thought he'd been resuced by a woman, remember? As if he'd been sucking on a lemon..."

Aphrodite was not impressed. "Himeros, give Eros back his lyre this minute!" she snapped. "Atheros, there will be no talk of castrating anyone in this house. Pothos, what have I told you about bringing vines indoors?" The youngest hid his length of vine behind his back and smiled. "Now, if you cannot behave in a civilised fashion indoors, make yourselves scarce, or I shall tell your Father you've been fighting again."

"He will be pleased with us," Himeros the lyre larcenist grinned smugly, "He is the god of war, after all." His older brother Eros lunged for him, grabbed his lyre back, whacked Himeros in the head with it, pushed Anteros over, then flew out of the room. Anteros let out a shout then gave chase, as Himeros snatched Pothos's vine and joined him, lashing at Eros's retreating wings with it, while Pothos took off in howling pursuit, demanding his vine back.

"I am so terribly, terribly sorry," she turned to her visitors with an apologetic expression. "They are good boys, usually, but..."

"Havin' teenagers in the house is something of a trial at the best of times," Bobby smiled understandingly, "I could tell you a thing or two about these two makin' me look venerable before my time."

They sat on comfortable couches as Aphrodite called for refreshments, which seemed to consist of a series of dishes of finger food morsels that required a lot of finger licking and lip slurping to eat. She turned to Castiel. "Now then, Castiel," she began with an inviting smile, pulling a cherry from its stem between two perfect plump lips, "You have brought Dean Winchester to visit me. Why don't you tell me what Dean has on his mind?"

Castiel concentrated briefly. "Right now, he is imagining undoing your girdle with his teeth, and thinking about how much you would both enjoy it if he..."

"What Mr Literal here means to say," Bobby cut in, as Sam coughed and choked, Kaz patted Sam's back, and Dean unabashedly performed a remarkably articulate eyebrow waggle that clearly conveyed the message that if she'd like to hear the rest of that thought all she had to do was ask and a demonstration could be arranged if she would prefer, "Is that we have come to you to ask for your assistance in undoing a spell that was cast by a powerful _magissa_ who petitioned you on Dean's behalf. This spell turned his car, his mechanical conveyance, into, well, into a human woman..."

"That would be me," smiled Kaz, rubbing Sam's back as he spluttered. "Sam, honey, chew your food..."

"That would be her," Bobby nodded. "A lady named Alexandra Finton, née Arvanitis. The boys helped her out with a neighbour who was hexin' her, and she wanted to do something to help them out. She decided that they needed lookin' after, and, well," he broke off, and waved a hand in Kaz's direction. "Next thing we knew, she's swapped wheels for arms and legs, and is feedin' Dean soup."

"Oh, yes, Alexandra," recalled Aphrodite, delicately licking syrup from a small pastry from her hand, "A lovely woman. Decent, considerate, modest, and most neighbourly, always thinking of others."

"It is exceedingly rare for any deity to grant a petition made by a human, even one made for the most altruistic and noble of reasons," observed Castiel.

"And as a rule, I don't," she agreed. "If I did, if your Father did – if any of us did – where would we be? We'd never have any peace, and humanity would stagnate as whining, screaming, spoiled children. But this was an exceptional case." She paused, and looked fondly at Dean. "Alexandra had great Talent, but she rarely used it to its full extent, and she never used it at all for her own benefit. The one time she humbly petitioned me, it was on the part of someone else. I couldn't help notice a request like that. And then when I saw who it was for...:" she patted Dean's knee. "She was right. You do deserve to have someone looking after you." She gave Kaz a smile, and Kaz beamed back indulgently. "You care about looking after, looking out for, everybody, except yourself. Your brother Sam, your almost-father Bobby, your friend Castiel, the people you help and save by Hunting, the women you bed, your _dog_, Dean, you put their well-being and happiness first, and yourself last, always yourself last."

"He does," Kaz agreed, "He even puts his car before himself! The number of times he's been injured, but he's staggered outside because he knew I needed maintenance done. Then he gets angry with himself, because he can barely hold the spanner, let alone find the strength to turn it. Oh, I can't tell you how upsetting I find it, having him wiggling around under me and moaning in frustration... oh, Sam, honey, chew your food..."

"Exactly," agreed Aphrodite, patting Dean's knee again, her expression compassionate and doting, yet suggesting that she wouldn't be at all upset at having Dean wiggling about under her and moaning in frustration. "Is it so bad, Dean?" she asked him, "Having Kaz, your car, like this? Somebody to look after you for a change?"

Dean looked at Kaz as she gazed fondly at him, and his expression was torn. "Well, no," he began hesitantly, "She's been great. Really, you have," he smiled at Kaz. "You're a great cook, and a marvellous nurse, and you read a great bedtime article..." he looked to Sam and Bobby. "But... you're great as a car, too," he said. "You're my Baby, and having you be that, you look after me, just being there. You're... home. Besides," he added in an offhanded fashion, "When the shit hits the fan, I got Samantha to mother-hen and bitchface and hover like a worried helicopter and be my Florence Nightmare, and Bobby to call me idjit and feed me disgusting medicine, although I sure as hell wouldn't enjoy being dunked in the bath nearly as much if it's one of them doing it..."

Kaz took Dean's hand. "The point is, if it needs doing, one of them will do it. Dean," she told him firmly, "Whatever you need me to be, that's what I want to do for you. I have absolute faith that Sam and Bobby can handle anything that you need done for you by a human."

He gave her a smile that strayed to his brother. "Yeah," he agreed, "So do I." He turned back to Aphrodite. "I am really grateful that you'd take notice of me to grant a request like this made on my behalf," he told her, "And I don't want to sound ungrateful, I'm not, having Kaz as a human has been wonderful, but... I want my car back. Please."

"I see." Aphrodite did not look angry, just thoughtful. "So, you are certain that you would like her to be turned back into a... mechanical conveyance?"

"Yes," he answered with certainty, as Kaz nodded encouragingly. "I want her back in her original form."

"Ah." Aphrodite fell silent.

"Aphrodite," Castiel cut in, "Are you willing to reverse this transformation?"

"Willing, yes," she replied, smiling regretfully, "But able, no."

"What?" yelped Sam. "But... you're a goddess!"

"Yes, I am," she nodded equably, "But there are limits on what even gods can do. Otherwise, why would we constantly argue and feud, fight and intrigue against each other? I am sorry," she sounded genuinely contrite, "But I cannot undo this. It is... difficult to explain. It is not like unravelling a piece of fabric – a transformation such as this does not just rearrange the... pieces, it changes them."

"It's more like bakin' a cake than buildin' a brick wall," surmised Bobby gloomily. "You can pull down a wall, but you can't disassemble a cake back into flour, eggs, milk and butter."

"That is a reasonable analogy from a human point of view," Aphrodite nodded.

"Balls," sighed Bobby.

Dean found a wan little smile. "Well," he ventured, "It may not be so bad. Having someone on the road with us who seems to get an actual enjoyment out of doing laundry. And taking Francis to get his hair cut, that's a bonus."

"Be still my beating follicles," moaned Sam. He gave Kaz a rueful grin. "But I could forgive just about anything in somebody who cooks a breakfast omelette like you do," he told her.

"Aphrodite," Castiel asked her urgently, "Are you certain that you cannot undo this?"

"I am certain," she confirmed. "The only thing I can suggest is that we ask my husband about it."

"Your husband?" chorused the Winchesters.

"Oh yes," she said, "He's very good with anything that's mechanical. Always tinkering."

"The smith of the gods," nodded Bobby thoughtfully. "Well, I say we got nothin' to lose."

"Except your eyebrows, if you get too close to the forge," she cautioned them.

"Very well," intoned Castiel. "With your permission, we shall approach Hephaestus, and request his help."

"It's this way," Aphrodite told them, rising gracefully from her seat, "But I warn you, if he's in the middle of something, he might not be willing to listen. He can be very single minded when he's designing something."

They followed her through the house and into the gardens behind it, passing by Aphrodite's four sons, who had abandoned the pursuit of Eros's lyre and were amusing themselves with their bows by shooting arrows into the trunk of a large gnarled olive tree. She led them towards a large and impressive brick building, with massive doors that appeared to have been stolen from a mediaeval Romanian castle somewhere. Despite their appearance, when Aphrodite gave one a push, it swung easily and silently.

She stepped through and motioned for them to follow. As she did so, she raised her voice and yelled in a tone completely at odds with her demeanour hitherto, one which would not have been out of place in a flannel-clad wrestling fan exhorting her preferred lycra-clad combatant to remove the head from the shoulders of his opponent and insert it somewhere anatomically improbable.

"Heph? Heph! Where in Hades are you? Whatever you're messing with, put the cursed thing down, and come out! We have visitors!"

* * *

Reviews are... *sigh* you lot are going to want something about the moaning, wiggling Winchester Of Your Choice, aren't you? Just make it up to your own requirements then. Reviews are like that.


	14. Chapter 13

The bunny has been shy again, but I gave him a good shake until another chapter fell out...

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

The concept of 'shed' as a man's place of retreat from domestic life to perform tasks of construction or repair and find simple gratification in such activities is something that has probably existed since early humans first stood upright and discovered that rocks and bits of stick could be used to assist with the fundamental task of getting enough to eat. Early cave dwellers most likely had a smaller nook in the rock face a bit further along from the entrance to the main cave, where the men kept their rocks and sticks in neat rows and forbade the juveniles to touch them. No doubt they sometimes visited other males in their tool nooks, to borrow each other's rocks, talk about last week's hunt, and generally hang out together with other males, while the women in the main cave got on with preparing the latest haul of roots and berries and wondered amongst themselves 'What the hell do they actually _do_ in there?'.

In modern times, across many cultures, a small outbuilding of some sort serves the purpose of providing a place of refuge for a man to keep his tools and spend some 'man time', hearkening back to the ancestral age when the men of the tribe made their contributions via their physical activity. As well as tasks of maintenance, this may entail working on 'projects', which may involve anything from banging a few nails into a piece of timber for no readily apparent reason to rebuilding something mechanical, anything from a non-functional vehicle to the next generation of lawn mower.

Interestingly enough, 'projects' may never actually be finished, suggesting that such activity is far more than a simple means to an end. The production of a working item at the end of it is irrelevant; it's the _doing_ that matters. It is the journey, not the destination, which is important, grasshopper. In this way, the shed is a place of personal retreat and spiritual nourishment, far more than just a place to stash the tangled garden hoses and the broken tennis rackets and the crippled tricycles of childhoods past and pieces of long-deceased barbeques and listen to the radio and drink beer whilst hiding from potentially being required to actually do something useful around the place.

Neither Winchester may have had a permanent dwelling of their own, but they were male, and deep down in their Y chromosomes, they understood the meaning, the concept, the idiom of 'shed'. If ambrosia was the food of the gods, then the place in which they found themselves was the shed of the gods.

The metallic chuffing sound announced the approach of the mechanical dogs again as they gazed in amazement around the enormous enclosed space. There were rows of shelves, and benches with pegboards behind them, appearing to vanish off into the distance like some sort of perspective-painting practice completed by a one-eyed art student with lots of enthusiasm but no depth perception. The work benches were piled with strange and wonderful arrays of tools, and pieces of metal, fittings and fixtures. It made the Lockheed Skunkworks workshop look like a child's untidy playhouse.

"God's tits," breathed Bobby, amazement wreathing his face.

"No, I think this is a god's garage," replied Dean.

"Wherever the dogs are, Hephaestus will not be far away," Aphrodite told them, as the mechanical dogs emerged and once more solicited a game of chase with Jimi, who happily joined in. She cocked her head as a dull, rhythmic pounding, like the heatbeat of a mountain, came faintly to them. "He may be at his forge. Heph! HEPH!" she bellowed again, striding off between shelves. "We have visitors!"

They followed her towards the _thump-tink-tink, thump-tink-tink_ noise, marvelling at the items they saw around them. Sam's eyes were popping out of his head.

"What's that?" he asked, seeing something that looked remarkably like a cross between a cappuccino machine and a Tesla coil.

"Oh, who knows?" Aphrodite rolled her eyes, "Probably a better mousetrap. He's forever tinkering in here. HEPH!" They rounded another set of shelving, and walked into a wave of dull heat. They saw a heavy-set man bent over a forge. "Heph, for fornication's sake, VISITORS! Are you deaf as well as... AIEEEEE!"

From under the shelves, half a dozen mice scuttled out, and rushed around in the way that small rodents do when suddenly startled. Aphrodite shrieked, and leaped onto an upturned box. "Kill them! Kill them!" she screamed, flapping a hand at the multiple murine marauders, "Disgusting creatures! Aieeeeeee!"

Sam bent down, and plucked up one of the tiny things. Upon examination, it turned out to be made of thin metal, its surface etched in such a fashion as to suggest sleek fur. It twitched its nose, waggled its tinny little whiskers at him, then went 'clonk' and was still.

The man at the forge looked up, and straightened. He was at least as tall as Sam, bearded, but either he ate a lot more animal protein and spent a lot more time lifting heavy objects, or he had a prize beef bull not too far back in his ancestry. If he'd been a bodybuilder, there would definitely have been rumours about him eating his steroid-using training partners. He smiled affably when he saw them, and put down the huge hammer he'd been wielding over the anvil the size of a comfortable recliner.

Sam shrugged sheepishly as he held out the now-inert mechanical mouse. The man stretched out an arm like watermelons stuffed into pantyhose, and took it with surprising delicacy. "I'm sorry," he apologised, "I just picked it up, and..."

"Oh, it's nothing you did, lad," the large man assured him, prodding thoughtfully at the unmoving item, "It's the problem with such small gearworks. It runs hard and fast for a few minutes, then tears itself apart. Hello, Affy," he smiled, and limped over to where Aphrodite was glaring at him.

"I hate mice, and you know it," she scowled at him, taking his offered hand with very bad grace as she descended from her box. "You did that on purpose, you wretch!"

"It was a simple exploration of concept on a small scale," he told her, unperturbed by her accusation, "Miniaturisation isn't easy," he told them, "People think that it's the really big projects that are the impressive ones, but really, it's the small ones that are the real works of art. I mean, anybody can build a horse the size of Cassandra's temple, but try making one that can stand on your thumbnail, and trot around the palm of your hand. There are limits to material properties, of metals in particular, as you make them smaller, the structural stress doesn't vary linearly with scale..."

"Heph," sighed Aphrodite, in the tone of one who has Been Through This Before, "I am not here simply to be startled by your experiments, or lectured about your endless fascination with... things. We – have - visitors. As I've been trying to tell you for the last five minutes..."

Hephaestus wiped his hands on his leather apron, and smiled. "Hello," he said to Castiel, "Welcome to my workshop, child of Yahweh. I am Hephaestus." He grasped the forearm of the angel, then surveyed the humans before him. "Three mortals, Affy?" he quirked an eyebrow, "Three? Isn't that a little bit risqué, even for you?"

Sam let out a small yelp. "No!" he yipped, "We're not here for... that!"

Hephaestus looked mildly confused. "You certainly are her type," he said to Dean, "But I suggest that you exercise discretion." He wagged a cautionary finger at the older Winchester. "Of course you'll want to brag, any mortal seduced by Aphrodite would, but has she told you what Ares did to Adonis?"

Dean looked bemused for a moment. "Those boys," he began, "They said their father castrated Adonis..."

"So he did, lad, so he did," Hephaestus nodded. "Ares. God of war. Have you met him? Interesting man. Knows his weapons. Bit of a hothead, though. Bit of a letch too, if I'm honest, but I've never heard any complaints from his lady friends." He grinned, and winked at Aphrodite, who smiled and slapped his arm playfully and said, "Oh, you!"

Dean looked even more confused. "So, you two are... but she... and you... and Ares? You know?" he ventured.

"Well, of course I know," Hephaestus grinned, jerking a thumb in the direction they'd come, "The Erotes are a bit of a giveaway. Good lads, though, if a bit weedy. And I'm sure there are others I don't know about, but a woman is supposed to have a bit of mystery about her, isn't she, Aff?" he gave her a light slap on the backside, and she rolled her eyes again.

Sam looked utterly befuddled. "So, she's married to you," he began, as Hephaestus nodded, "And the Erotes are Ares' sons, which technically makes you their uncle, because he's your brother, and, and, and..." he ran out of words. "So... what do you do?" he finished in bewilderment.

"Oh, we play the odd round of Hide The Greek In The Big Wooden Horse," grinned Hephaestus, putting an arm around Aphrodite as she let out a small shriek of feigned outrage, "But mostly, I like to stay here, out of the way. Avoids any awkwardness. Ares pops by for some wine afterwards, usually. Which reminds me, Affy, next time you see him, would you tell him I've repaired his spear?"

"Greek gods do not regard 'marriage' as the monogamous commitment that is familiar to contemporary Western Christianity," explained Castiel. "The 'marriage' between Aphrodite and Hephaestus is an anomaly, a proclamation made by Zeus in an attempt to prevent any conflict between the gods over her."

"Yes, and didn't that work well," humphed Aphrodite, thwacking a dainty hand into one of Hephaestus's massive biceps, "I still remember the time you dropped that net over Ares and I, and dragged us all the way to Olympus..."

"Revenge," grinned Hephaestus, "He was the one who had Demeter put that curse on my hair oil so that I grew horns..."

"Seems like they take their brotherly pranking pretty damned seriously, too," grinned Bobby.

"She is the Goddess of Love and Affection," smiled Hephaestus, putting an arm around Aphrodite, "Can you really see her restricting herself to just one consort?"

"Now, Heph," Aphrodite smiled at him with a mixture of resignation and affection, "These guests have not visited us today to hear the details of our intimate lives..."

"Oh, I could stand to hear a little more," Dean waggled his eyebrows as Sam shot him a Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual).

"They are here to seek help with the reversal of a transformation," Aphrodite went on, shooting Dean a brilliant smile. "Regarding their mechanical conveyance." Hephaestus's face visibly brightened. "It was a petition from a mortal to me that started it; I gave it the human form she asked for, and you know I can't undo that sort of thing, so..." she motioned to Kaz, who stepped forward to stand before Hephaestus with a beautiful smile on her face.

"Oh, my dear," breathed the smith of the Greek pantheon, reaching out to take her hand, "What a beautiful thing you are!" He turned an approving look on Dean. "You have taken wonderful care of her," he nodded, beaming, "I can see why you would wish to have her returned to her original form." He turned a serious expression down to Kaz. "Is this your wish also, my dear, truly?" he asked her.

"It is, Great Smith," she replied, with the radiant expression of one who has actually met their true god, "I was drawn from the Earth by those who practise your craft, and I wish to return to my true nature, my true form, and my true purpose."

"Very well," pronounced Hephaestus, picking up a pair of measuring calipers. He sat on his anvil, and patted the surface beside him. "Sit with me, my dear, and I will see what may be done."

Kaz turned to Bobby, and hugged him. "Thank you, Bobby," she told him, "I know that I will always have a secure park at your yard. Don't take any backchat from Gus, his battery is fine, and remember to launder your linen at least once a week."

"Will do," he replied fondly, hugging her back, before she let him go and turned to Sam.

"I don't need to tell you to look after your brother," she told him as she hugged him too, "Because you know he won't do it for himself."

"Aint that the truth," smiled Sam.

"Remember, you are always welcome to entertain lady friends in me," she added.

"Er, thanks," he blushed slightly as she released him.

"And if you ever feel a desire to learn a bit more about what makes me tick, just crawl under me and see what you can learn down there. I'm sure your brother would be an excellent teacher."

"Um. Thanks?" Sam stuttered, his face flushing, as Kaz bent to pat Jimi.

"I will always feel safe with you guarding me," she said, and he whuffed and offered her a paw. "Keep up the good work. And I appreciate the lovely lavender fragrance you leave when you pass Hellhound gas."

Dean's eyes were shining as she straightened, and gathered him in. "Alexandra Finton was right," she told him. "You do need to let someone look after you sometimes. Try to be kinder to yourself, Dean, and let Sam look after you when you need it," she instructed him firmly, "You can be his hero the rest of the time."

"I will," Dean choked out.

"Hey, don't be sad," Kaz told him as he sniffled, "I'm not going anywhere! I will be with you for as long as you Hunt. I promise."

"And afterwards, too," Hephaestus piped up cheerfully, "Don't worry, your boy will look after her when you..."

"Shhhhhh!" Aphrodite hissed at him and slapped him in the arm again. "It is not their custom for Yahweh or His children to divulge such future events to mortals!"

"That is correct," confirmed Castiel. "Despite what certain individuals may believe, we do not, as a rule, make divine Revelation to humans about the course that their lives will take. Those who claim that we do are in fact talking to themselves."

"Oh. Sorry," the smith god apologised ruefully to Castiel, with the shamefaced expression of someone at a family gathering who has unthinkingly brought up the expressly forbidden topic of Dear Aunt Amelia's Unspeakable Accident With The Aspidistra in casual conversation.

"This is not goodbye," Kaz smiled at them, pulling a tissue out of her sleeve and dabbing at Dean's eyes, "Because I am not going anywhere! Blow." He did. Satisfied, with a last fond glace at him, she turned towards the anvil.

"Um, Kaz," Sam began hesitantly. She faced him again, and he fidgeted. "Uh, there was something I wanted to ask you about," he sounded sheepish. "It might sound a bit silly, but, uh..." He bent down and whispered in her ear.

She laughed heartily, and shook her head. "No," she told him, reaching back to untuck her shirt then flip it out of the way to expose the small of her back.

There was no tattooing, but there were some old scars, faded but still visible, crudely made but unmistakeable.

_D.W. S.W._

"I can remove those blemishes for you," offered Hephaestus.

Kaz gave him a brilliant smile. "Don't you dare."

* * *

Yes, yes, I'm playing fast and loose with Greek mythology. I don't like to restrict my blashphemy to just one partheon; that would be discrimination.

Please feed the poor hungry little bunny. Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Jumping Onto A Box And Screaming When Confronted By The Unexpected Mechanical Mice Of Life!


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

"We should go," Aphrodite told them gently. As Kaz seated herself on the anvil next to Hephaestus, smiling up at him, she took Dean's arm. "This may take a little time. Heph prefers to work such things undisturbed."

"It's been great getting to know her like this," Dean sighed, as Hephaestus motioned for Kaz to extend her arm, then measured it with his calipers.

"She certainly knows how to cook," nodded Bobby. "And launder," he added in a slightly reproachful tone, touching the peak of his hat a bit protectively.

"And we won't have to buy new shorts or socks for quite some time," Sam pointed out as they headed back out of the giant dimension-defying shed, :"We have enough smalls to keep a troupe of male underwear models going for at least a year. Although, having my initials embroidered on them is a bit, well, creepy."

"She embroidered little pies on mine," grinned Dean.

"I'm not sure if that's cute, or totally disturbing," muttered Sam.

"Marking clothing with some icon identifying the individual to whom it belongs did seem to be a powerful theme for her," agreed Castiel, taking off his coat and turning it to show them the lining. On the inside, below the collar and the long-faded manufacturer's label, the name 'Castiel' was embroidered in decorative cursive script, and a detailed pair of wings bracketed the text. "Her rendition of the physical manifestation of my wings is remarkably accurate."

They arrived back at the massive doors, and headed back out into the pleasant sunshine. One of the Erotes who had been at archery practice with his brothers came running up to Aphrodite.

"Eros broke it!" he yelped accusingly, holding out a small recurved bow with one arm overbent at the end. "He broke my bow!"

"I did not!" shouted the oldest boy, arriving hot on his brother's heels. "You broke it yourself! I told you, Himeros, Uncle Heph made my bow, so it will bend deeper and shoot farther!"

"You broke my bow!" reiterated Himeros, as the two other Erotes came running to follow the argument.

"I didn't!" Eros yelled back. "Anyway, it serves you right for stealing my lyre!"

"Now hold on here," out of habit, Bobby broke into the bickering, "It doesn't matter how it happened, the problem is, we got one broke bow here, right?"

"It's his fault," muttered Himeros ominously, holding out the bow to Bobby, who inspected it closely."

"Uh-huh. Well," he went on, "Since Uncle Heph is good with makin' and fixin' stuff, I suggest that you ask him to fix this for you. He's in the middle of something right now, but when he's done, maybe you can..."

He was interrupted by a deep, throaty rumbling that travelled through the ground.

Sam looked concerned. "Er, do you get earthquakes here?" he asked. "Greece is one of the most seismically active places in the world...

The rumbling rose briefly to a roar, reminiscent of a predator prepared to strike.

"That's not an earthquake, Sam," Dean grinned hugely, "That's..."

Behind them, the doors of the workshop burst open, and the Impala in all her four-wheeled glory shot out, engine roaring, horn blaring and wheels churning. She shot past them, and headed out into the garden at top speed. As she flashed by, they caught the sight of Hephaestus's face, frozen in an expression of excited delight, in the front seat.

"Way to go, Baby!" laughed Dean, as the car skidded around a corner, and raced along a row of orange trees.

"Oh, no," sighed Aphrodite, "He's found a new toy, hasn't he? It's all he'll be able to talk about for a week, now."

"I feel your pain," empathised Sam, as the car fishtailed across a long gravelled path and zoomed up the next side of the garden.

"Well, considerin' he likes to spend so much time tinkerin' with things, it's not so surprising that he'd fall head over heels for that car," chuckled Bobby, "She is a thing of beauty."

Castiel cocked his head. "When driving a motor vehicle," he began, "Is it not usual for the driver to be sitting behind the wheel, rather than in the passenger seat?"

They all watched as the car swerved around a tinkling fountain, throwing gravel and a couple of unwary nymphs sideways, and zoomed past again. Hephaestus was definitely sitting in shotgun.

Aphrodite frowned in confusion. "What does 'YAHOOOOOOOO!' mean?" she asked the Angel of the Lord.

"It is often cried out loudly as an expression of enjoyment, in situations of intense excitement," he explained.

After a second lap of the garden, the Impala screeched to a stop beside them, honked her horn cheerfully, and popped the door for Hephaestus. The god of smiths slowly climbed out, a huge smile on his face, and patted the door fondly as it closed.

"She is... remarkable," he smiled at Dean, "Remarkable. She travels so much more rapidly than the fastest chariot I have ever built!"

"Detroit steel," grinned Dean, moving to run a hand along his Baby's hood. "Four hundred brake horsepower at the crank. Welcome back," he whispered to her.

"Uncle Heph," said Himeros in a small voice, holding his bow out.

"What is it, lad? Oh," the smith god took the bow and bent it back into shape with one large hand. "There you are," he ruffled the boy's hair, and Himeros made the disgusted noise of teenagers everywhere who suspect that they are being treated like children.

"What's that, Uncle Heph?" the youngest boy, Pothos, asked excitedly, pointing to the Impala.

"Ah," intoned Hephaestus, "That is a chariot that doesn't need horses!"

"It goes really fast!" enthused Anteros.

"It does indeed," smiled Hephaestus.

"May we have a turn in your chariot?" Eros asked Dean politely.

"Weeeeeell," he considered the request, "So long as you let her do the driving, all right?" The four boys nodded solemnly. "What do you say, Baby?" he patted the car again. It honked twice. "I'd say that's a yes."

"How do we get in?" asked Pothos. As he did so, all four doors swung open.

"Okay, now you pull the doors shut behind you," Dean instructed, "Then, sit down, and hang on!"

The Impala revved her engine and spun her wheels, and set of for another lap of the garden. The nymphs squealed, and jumped into the fountain.

"You know, that wouldn't be a bad trick," mused Dean, "A car that could drive itself, when I'm too tired."

"Or too drunk," sniped Sam a little smugly.

"It will not last once you leave this realm," Hephaestus smiled and waved to the carful of cheering boys, "She will lose any self-awareness, and once more be her old self again." He watched the car the way a top trainer watches a racehorse stretch out for a full pace gallop. "The power of four hundred horses, you say? Yet I see no horses."

"It's a unit for measurement of power output, a nominative hangover from the age of the development of the first propulsion systems, steam engines," replied Sam, "Because prior to that, horses were the most widely used and flexible form of generating power for, well, anything, except for watermills or windmills..."

"I see no steam, either," Hephaestus was almost talking to himself, "Although there was definitely heat being generated. Heat, but I could not smell fire." He sniffed. "I do smell something else though, something more pungent than woodsmoke."

"It's an internal combustion engine," Sam went on, "It burns gasoline. A fraction of oil. Like, like..." he struggled to find something a Greek god would understand. "Like bitumen. The stuff in Greek fire? Refined from petroleum."

Hephaestus looked thoughtful. "No fire, but burns petroleum?" he wondered.

"Why don't we go inside," Aphrodite suggested, "And you can ask Sam all about it."

"Yes," smiled Hephaestus, "I would like to know more about this 'internal combustion'."

"Er, well, Dean knows much more about how cars work than I do," Sam stumbled.

"Crap, Sam," smiled Dean, "I can tell him how it works, piston to crank to wheels, but you can tell him_ why_ it works. You can tell him about refining fuel, and what makes an octane rating."

"What is an octane rating?" asked Hephaestus earnestly.

"Oh, well, that's a measure of how far a particular fuel vapour can be compressed before it self-detonates," Sam said, "The higher the activation energy, the higher the octane rating will be..."

"Activation energy? Self-detonation?" pressed Hephaestus like an eager school boy let into the chemistry lab for the first time.

"Oh, well, that depends on the chemical structure of the main alkane component," Sam went on, "You see, when it comes out of the ground, it's a mix of all these different hydrocarbon chemicals..."

"God's tits," breathed Bobby to Castiel, watching as Aphrodite led Dean back into the villa, while Hephaestus steered Sam after them, the two in earnest conversation. "We may never get them to leave."

Back in the villa, they returned to the airy room, where Aphrodite insisted that they eat before departure. When Hephaestus took a stick of charcoal from behind one ear and began to draw on the cloth draped over the table, she merely sighed, and pushed a bundle of pieces of parchment towards him.

"So, the 'atoms' are strung together by 'bonds'," he nodded thanks to her, and continued to draw, "Which break to release the drive..."

"The bonds aren't physical things," Sam corrected, taking the charcoal and drawing a series of rounded shapes, lobed figures, and a strange one with a doughnut around a barbell, "There are things called electrons, they're what hold the atoms together as molecules..."

"What holds the middle together?" asked Hephaestus. "How do all those 'protons' stay together, if they are charged, and supposed to repel each other? Why don't they fly apart?"

"Oh, well, that's the nuclear binding energy," Sam started drawing again. "And sometimes they do fly apart, and you get a whole lotta bang for your buck when that happens..."

"Oh dear," muttered Bobby, "What sort of trouble can Sam get into if his little chat leads to the Greek pantheon developin' nukes? We're not going to start some sort of inter-belief system arms race here, are we?"

"You have nothing to worry about, Bobby," Aphrodite smiled, "He will only be interested in using any knowledge he gains to make a better mousetrap. Or better mechanical mice." She shuddered. "Ghastly things."

"Oh, they are, aren't they," Dean nodded understandingly. He gestured at Sam and Hephaestus. "It's quite sweet, really, when nerds collide," he commented. "The Geek and the Greek. It's so nice for Sam to find somebody who speaks his language. I think he might've been an absent-minded professor in a previous life, he certainly has the hair for it. Or a scholarly hermit. No, definitely a hermit. A celibate hermit." he glanced fondly at his brother. "I hate to interrupt. It's too much like taking candy away from a starving child."

"We'll be here all day if we don't," Bobby pointed out.

"Perhaps we can find something to amuse you while the 'geeks' are communing," smiled Aphrodite, summoning a servant. "This may interest you," she went on, proffering two scrolls the attendant fetched, "A treatise by Pausanias, relating his studies of the story of Lycaon."

"So, what is that?" asked Dean, watching curiously as Bobby's eyes bugged out of his head. "The history of the invention of the trucker's hat? An early draft of 'Fifty Shades Of Grey'?"

"It's only the earliest known account ever of the origin and nature of werewolves," breathed Bobby, handling the scroll as if it were a precious relic. "Lost to humans, though."

"The original burned with the library at Alexandria, I'm afraid," Aphrodite shook her head sadly, calling for more wine and dainty pastries as Bobby opened the scroll and began to read greedily, "But this copy is accurate, and easier to read. I'm afraid that Pausanias's geographic surveying was very competent, but his handwriting was dreadful."

Bobby nodded absently, not even looking up as a servant refilled his wine cup, then frowned. "He's quotin' in a dialect here, I think, I'm not familiar with it..."

Castiel bent over to inspect the manuscript. "This is the Arcadian dialect of Ancient Greek," he pronounced, "I can assist you with translation. 'Lycaon of the Pelasgians was king of Arcadia. He took many wives, and they bore him many sons'..."

Aphrodite took a sip of her own wine, and smiled happily. "This is what I like to see," she declared, beaming at Bobby and Castiel, engrossed in the scroll, while Sam and Hephaestus continued their animated discussion, taking turns at drawing on the parchment – and, she noted again with a sigh, the tablecloth. "I lose so many tablecloths that way," she smiled ruefully, "But I think it's very important that guests be entertained."

"Well, I can definitely say, visiting here has been most entertaining for me," Dean confirmed, as the Killer Smile slid into place. "Unless you can think of anything else that might prove diverting?"

Aphrodite returned his smile with one of her own. "It's remarkable that you should say that," she purred. "In one of the private chambers, there is a truly amazing tapestry, woven for me by Arachne. It depicts nereids of Dionysus's retinue... frolicking."

"Frolicking?" Dean's eyebrows waggled.

"Frolicking," she confirmed. "I think you'd like it. Take it from me, nereids know how to frolick. And I consider myself something of an expert." She rose from her couch. "Accompany me. I shall show you."

"The tapestry, or how to frolick?" he asked, The Smile cranking up another notch.

"You do not strike me as a man who needs lessons in frolicking," she smiled, taking his hand.

She was right.

* * *

Naughty Hephaestus, alluding to stuff that you already know about, but Dean doesn't yet. Denizens (and some Lurkers, Visitors and Droppers-In) will already know that, in the Jimiverse, there is at least one member of the next generation, Dean's son RJ. We just don't know anything about his mother, because I Don't Do Romantic Stuff. Like I said in 'Grumpy Old Men', she was probably another Hunter, and she's probably dead, which is the usual fate for women who get in any way involved with the Winchesters. Mortal women, anyway.

...

Although, you don't think... you know, with the frolicking... O_O

Nearly done - help the little bunny over the line! Reviews are the Frolicking Winchester Of Your Choice Drawing With You On The Tablecloth Of Life!*

*What you draw is up to you, but you might want to close the curtains if it gets a bit risque. Charcoal or chocolate is up to you.


	16. Chapter 15

Hello? Hello? *tap tap tap* Is this thing working? Is there anybody there?... Anybody? Denizens? Well, anyway, onward to the final chapter.

Before we finish up this story, could I just take a moment to go _**AAAAAAAAARGH**_ at the person who made me aware of a piece of fanart which includes, er, embroidered undergarments. Thank you, thank you so very much, you fiend; what has been seen cannot be unseen. I'm going to put the link here, now, so that anybody else who strays to it can be as freaked out as me:

http**COLONSLASHSLASH** browse**DOT** deviantart**DOT** com/?order=5&q=supernatural+sexy+and+I+know+it#/d58ebzi

Jesus wept, I think Dean's really is embroidered with a little pie... what are these people taking when they do this?

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

With Dean recovered from his cold and Baby recovered from her bout of anthropomorphism, the Winchesters were back in the game, on the road, heading for Bumfuck Somestate to deal with another job, save another person, and generally get on with the family business of making the world a better place, one dead fugly at a time...

"Jesus, Dean, I don't _believe_ you!" spluttered Sam.

"Believe it," Dean stated firmly, "That tapestry was a work of art. Wow, those frolicking nymphs, so realistically depicted! I swear, their nipples followed you around the room..."

"Okay, you're the horniest individual on the planet, I get that," Sam said, with a hefty shot of Bitchface #14™ (There Are Times When Your Behaviour Is So Reckless I Wonder If You Took Lessons As A Small Child), "But, shit, bro, a fucking _goddess_?"

"You make it sound so crude, Sam," sighed Dean with a hurt expression. "Yes, technically she's a goddess of fucking, but there's so much more to it than the brute mechanics of Hide The Greek In The Big Wooden Horse. It's mutual enjoyment and appreciation; it's a beautiful, natural act..."

"Which you undertook, with a _goddess_, while her _husband_ was in the same house!" Sam scolded.

"You heard Cas," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "They don't think about it like we do. Anyway, I didn't want to disturb Bobby and Cas and their reading, or you and Heph – he was too busy having a nerdgasm with you to worry about his consort showing me her tapestries," he grinned at his scowling little brother. "What was all that about? Protons and neutrons and nuclear fussing..."

"Nuclear fusion," corrected Sam, "He's got some ideas he wants to try out. He thinks that if he gets his two smallest pairs of tweezers, he can get the Hydrogen-Boron fusion thing happening if he holds them really close together and hits them with his largest mallet. He predicts that he'll be able to make his mice run for decades without refuelling."

"Well, I don't think we need to worry about starting World War Alpha, or something, if all he wants to do is make a better mouse," shrugged Dean, "Unless angels are scared of mice. Are angels scared of mice?"

"I don't know, Dean," Sam replied through clenched teeth, "But I doubt it."

"Elephants are supposed to be scared of mice," Dean pointed out, "And elephants are bigger than angels."

"They are only bigger than angels' human vessels. Elephants are not big grey trumpeting multi-dimensional waveforms of celestial intent, Dean," sighed Sam.

"I guess not," agreed Dean equably, shivering a little. "Fuck, it's cold," he muttered, fiddling with the heater. "Do you think you could give us a little more heat, Baby?" As if in response to his request, a sudden extra blast of warm, soothing air filled the car. "Atta girl," he grinned, patting the dash. "Still looking after us."

"Hephaestus said that she would lose her self-awareness once she was back to her proper car form," Sam reminded him.

"Don't believe everything you hear," Dean tutted. "That's one thing I've learned. I mean, if I believed everything some tall guy ever said, where would I be?"

"Well, you'd probably have fewer scars, to start with," Sam reasoned, "And you wouldn't have gotten your elbow sprained if you'd believed me in high school when I told you that Stephanie Harding was a black belt and was going steady with a girl a dan rank above her..."

"Yeah, but watching them 'spar'? Totally worth it!" declared Dean happily. Sam sighed, and wondered if there was a god of Discretion somewhere he could pray to. Miracles didn't happen very often, but he had nothing to lose.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

By the time they stopped for the night, it was dark, and the temperature had dropped dramatically. They had to leave the cosy comfort of the car, and head into the cheap and crappy room at the cheap and crappy hotel that was of the cheap and crappy standard of the cheap and crappy establishments they usually patronised. The cheap and crappy manager leered when the took a room with two queens, and naturally, the cheap and crappy shower managed only lukewarm water, then the cheap and crappy heater put out nothing but cheap and crappy lukewarm air, despite wheezing and puffing like an asthmatic steam locomotive.

"Shit," muttered Dean, whacking the heater, "We'd get more heat by training the rats this place has definitely got to fart all at once."

"We might even get snow," commented Sam, getting into bed.

"Fan-frigging-tastic," muttered Dean, turning out the light and trying to get into bed without touching the cold covers. The beds were just as cheap and crappy as the rest of the place, and he snuggled and tossed, trying to get warm.

"Crap, it's cold," he griped, unable to settle, "Sam? Sam?"

He was answered by a gentle snuffle.

"What the...? Sam! SAM!" he called.

"Hmmf?" a sleepy voice replied in the dark. "Dea'? Wha'?"

"Sam, were you asleep?" demanded Dean.

"No," his brother replied, with a _Bitchface_ #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That? ) that might've been unseeable, but was clearly audible. "I wasn't asleep. I was just lying perfectly still, and practising my posture to see if I can make the luge team for the Winter Olympics this year..."

"You were asleep!" Dean sniped in an accusatory tone. "It's freezing! How the fuck can you sleep when it's this cold?"

"Put on some socks, to keep your feet warm," Sam instructed.

"I did," Dean answered.

"Then put on another pair over the top," said Sam.

"I did," Dean replied, "I'm wearing two pairs. I can't fit another pair on my feet."

"Then stuff them in your mouth," snapped Sam, "And shut up!"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What the hell have you got over there?" he demanded.

"What? Nothing!" Sam shot back. "Just shut up and go to sleep Dean!"

Dean reached out and snapped the light back on. He was greeted by the sight of his baby brother squinting into the sudden light, his eyes peeking out from under a sky blue hat knitted hat, complete with cheerful pom-poms, with the ear flaps buttoned under his chin.

"What the fuck is that?" yelped Dean. "Dude, do you have... pom-poms?"

"This? It's a hat," Sam replied with a yawn. "Kaz bought it for me. Because I complained about my ears being cold." He rolled over, snuggled back down into his bed, and closed his eyes. "Turn the fucking light off, and go to sleep."

The light shut off. Sam heard his brother toss and turn a bit more as he drifted back towards the Land of Nod.

He was nine-tenths asleep again when he suddenly felt a blast of cold air at his back, and the mattress dipped.

"Hey!" he yelped, "What the?... Dean!"

"Move over," instructed Dean, getting into the bed behind him.

"Dean!" Sam yapped, "What the fuck are you doing?"

"If you can sleep in this weather, you've got body heat to spare," declared Dean, slapping his brother's shoulder, "So, move."

"Ow! Hey!" Sam clutched the cheap and crappy bedclothes around him. "Stop it! Get out of my bed!"

"Shut up Gigantor," growled Dean, "I'm not that keen on the idea either, but it's your gigantic Sasquatch carcass, or hypothermia."

"Get into your own bed!" yelled Sam, snatching the covers away.

"Stop that!" barked Dean, "You're letting the warm out! Ohhhhh, you're so nice and warm..."

"This is so wrong," complained Sam.

"Don't flatter yourself, Francis," Dean told him, "This is purely a survival measure. Anyway, we used to share a bed all the time."

"When we were kids!" complained Sam.

"Well, you're such a giant fucking baby, it's practically the same," shrugged Dean, moving his feet. "Crap, my feet are freezing! How are you so warm?"

"AAAAAARGH!" yipped Sam as Dean's ice-cold feet found the back of his leg. "DEAN!"

"What's that?" Dean asked, reaching down to clutch at Sam's feet.

"Hey! HEY!" squawked Sam in outrage, "Give that back, you jerk!"

"Fluffy bedsocks!" Dean clutched the thick woolly sky blue sock in triumph, "You got fluffy bedsocks! You've been holding out on me, bro!"

"Give me back my sock, Dean!" yelled Sam, grabbing for the sock.

Dean yanked it away, and started putting his hands into it. "Aaaaah," he sighed contentedly, that's so much better... Hey!"

"That's mine, thank you so very much," hissed Sam malevolently as he snatched the sock from his brother, and wiggled to put it back on. "Kaz bought them for me! Buy your own fluffy socks!"

"I can't wait, Sam!" insisted Dean, "I'll freeze before tomorrow!"

"Sucks to be you, then," huffed Sam. "Do me a favour, and die quietly."

"Sam, I am your older brother," Dean intoned, "And I demand that you give me one of your socks!"

"Leave my feet alone, you fetishistic freak!" squeaked Sam, as Dean dived below the blankets and began to fumble at his baby brother's feet. "Oh, that is so WRONG!"

"Owwwww!" came the muffled wail from the bottom of the bed. "You kicked me, you bitch!"

"Leave my feet alone, jerk!" Sam gave his brother another kick for good measure as Dean's head reappeared at the top end of the covers.

"Can I just hug your feet for a few minutes?" he asked.

"No!" snapped Sam.

"Just until I warm up?" pleaded Dean.

"NO!" Sam replied. "If you insist on invading my bed, hold still, and go to sleep!"

"Spoilsport," moaned Dean with a deep sigh, finally stilling.

Sam slid back towards sleep. Then...

"Sam?"

"What now?"

"Can I borrow your hat?"

"No!"

"My ears are cold. And you still have more hair than me."

"Tough. Get your own hat."

"But then I'd have to get out of bed. And yours is wool. It's all fluffy. It's really nice... so nice and fluffy and warm..."

"What the... DEAN! STOP STROKING MY HAT YOU FREAK!"

"Please?"

"NO!"

"What about one of your socks? Your feet are so ginormous, I'm sure I could pull one onto my head..."

"NO!"

"I'll let you be the big spoon."

"_NO!_ DEAN! SHUT! UP!"

There was a deep mournful sigh, then silence descended once more. Sleep beckoned.

Until...

_pfpfpfpfpf thrthrthrthr rrrrr ppppppp_

"Hrmf? Wha'? Hm?"

"Nothing, Sammy, go to sleep."

"Hrm... wha'?... oh, Jesus _Christ_ Dean, you filthy stinking animal!"

"Huh, like you can talk, Toxic Taco Boy."

"Seriously, Dean, that is, oh, that is putrid!"

"Hey, hey, don't do that! Aaaaargh, you're letting the warm out and the cold in!"

"Better to freeze to death than dissolve in toxic waste!"

"Says you! If you're going to flap the blankets, I demand the hat! Or at least a sock."

"Go fuck yourself, you vile individual."

"With you in the bed? Nah, that really is weird, and the shower's not warm enough."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Eventually, Jimi decided to join them, and snuggled in between the two of them.

"Thank fuck for that," muttered Sam, "At least now maybe I won't have to worry about some freak trying to undress me in the middle of the night."

"Only in your dreams, you perv," scoffed Dean, cuddling up to the large dog. "At least if I have to wake up to a faceful of dog breath, Jimi's isn't as bad as yours."

The bickering gradually subsided, giving way to gentle snoring, the occasional waft of lavender-scented Hellhound flatulence, and some twitching as one of the three chased rabbits in his sleep.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Leroy Rose didn't like to use the word 'homeless' to describe himself. "I'm just not stayin' in the one place all the time", was how he put it, thinking that he shouldn't have to describe himself anyway, and the world would be a happier place if more people could just learn to mind their business. At the run-down motel (the clientele of which could usually be relied upon for a pretty good supply of cans and other recyclables he could collect on his early morning rounds), he paused for a moment to admire the fine piece of American engineering parked outside one of the darkened rooms, a Chevy Classic. He nodded approvingly, because he liked to see people take care of their things. He didn't touch her, of course, because Leroy knew how to mind his business, but he grinned, and told her she was beautiful.

Being 'not stayin' in the one place all the time' also had the effect of making him invisible to most people, he'd found. That didn't bother Leroy, of course – he liked it that way. He didn't bother nobody, and he was happy not to be bothered, thank you very much. It was presumably that amazing cloak of invisibility that made the young punk who came along to case the car ignore him completely. Huffing in disapproval, Leroy pulled back into the shadows to continue his hunt. A flat piece of metal flashed in the young guy's hand...

There was a sound like a low, angry rumble, then a sudden flash, a noise that sounded like _zwat_, and a stifled cry as the would-be thief flew backwards across the lot away from the car, right out of his probably-stolen expensive trainers. Leroy gaped in astonishment, then started to chuckle. That'll teach him to mind his business, he thought.

After a minute, though, the young guy hadn't moved, and Leroy might've had no time for young fools, but he wasn't a complete hardass, so he made his way over to the boy to see if he could help. When the youngster did stir, he was dazed, and gibbering about the car, saying that it bit him.

Leroy picked him up and escorted him to the 24-hour laundrette across the road, because the light was better and it was warm there, and the manager called the emergency services. He told the police that he'd just found the youngster lying on the ground, with no shoes on, but Mr Can't-Mind-His-Business kept jabberin' about the car that bit him, it _growled_ at him then it fucking _bit_ him, and burned him. The paramedics told the cops that hypothermia could cause hallucinations, and there was no way of knowing how long he'd been lying on the cold blacktop, or why – the singeing and scorch marks suggested an electrocution, or maybe a lightning strike.

Leroy hung around and answered the cops' questions as best he could, then made his way back to where he'd left his cart by the dumpster. It was still there, of course, it wasn't like he had anything worth stealing.

Being invisible, he'd had the chance to see stuff that other people would ignore, dismiss, or otherwise convince themselves wasn't real, so he wasn't fazed by the early morning's events. He'd seen stranger things, and when he was sober, too. He gave the car an approving smile as he made his way out of the lot. "You showed him, huh," he chuckled, "Somebody's lookin' after you, but it's good to see you can look after yourself."

For a moment, he could've believed that the headlights and grille made it look like she was smiling at him, but he shook his head, told himself not to be such a crazy old coot, and headed for his next likely dumpster.

**THE END**

* * *

Ta-dah! *squelch* Another bunny stomped! Not that it'll do me any good, because now the one dictating 'Grumpy Old Men' will have exclusive whispering rights (unless I get trapped in another soul-destroyingly boring meeting, and a one-shot bunny pops out of my tea mug). I suppose now that all we need is a visit from A Certain White Van; Sam, at least, has been thoroughly traumatised again.

I recruit for the DDD&SSS from the reviews, so have at it! Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Joining You For Snuggling Wearing A Cute Fluffy Hat And Warm Socks!*

*And also sweats and a tee, or sensible pyjamas. They're not wearing the hat and socks, and nothing else**, I want to be clear about that.

**If you INSIST on the hat and socks, and nothing else, for crying out loud, make sure the curtains are shut...


	17. Coda

Regular Denizens know how history works in the Jimiverse; it's a series of potential moments strung together from one_ now_ to the next. For any particular _now_, there can be a practically infinite# number of potential realities, until one of them actually happens (it's probably, as Sir Terry P. suggested, because of quantum).

So, theoretically, somewhere, somehow, in one of those timelines _in potentia_, this might've happened, so I wrote it down for the Denizens who wanted it to. That's not to say that it did. But it might have.

#Only practically infinite. For some reason, in every single reality that's even vaguely possible, no matter how improbable, The cast of _Jersey Shore_ are orange and chocolate is full of fat. That's probably because of quantum, too...

* * *

**Coda**

"Grrrrowwwwraaaa!" went the ferocious creature, its face pulled into a hideous rictus as it jumped out from behind the forge, and crouched in front of its giggling prey. "I am the Bucket Monster, and I am here to eat you!"

The small boy giggled again, crawled over to the Bucket Monster, and attempted to pull himself upright against the slavering creature. After two failed attempts, he frowned, his plump bottom lip pouting adorably, then reached up to grab at the beard dangling tantalisingly within reach.

"Oh, no!" wailed the Bucket Monster, "My beard is my only weakness!"

"It's true, you know," prompted Hephaestus, "The only way to kill a Bucket Monster is to hit it in the beard."

The boy made a clumsy fist, and flailed at the beard. The Bucket Monster let out a desperate, ululating cry of defeat, and slumped to the floor.

The child immediately climbed onto its fallen foe, and whacked it squarely on the nose.

"Ow!" the Bucket Monster sat up and rubbed its nose. "That's quite a right jab you're developing there, young man," it noted with an approving smile.

"Any time you're finished with that bucket, I need it," said Hephaestus equably. Ares took the bucket off his head and handed it over, then crouched down to hold up a hand. "Jab!" he prompted, and the boy let out a laughing squeal and whacked with more enthusiasm than actual coordination at the proffered palm. "Well done!" he ruffled the sandy blonde hair, and picked the child up. "I'm surprised that Aphy lets him out here," he went on, picking up his wine in the other hand.

"She doesn't," Hephaestus told him, "But he's an escape artist, and he keeps finding his way out here anyway. He just loves this place." As he spoke, the child reached out to Hephaesus, who took him. The youngster grabbed for the tongs that the Great Smith was holding. Hephaestus shook his head, smiling, and reached for a tiny spanner, handing it over. The child took it with a cry of delight, waved it happily, then put one end in his mouth. "I get an earful for it," he went on, jiggling the cooing boy, "But he just gravitates towards tools, and devices. I found him trying to get the end of that onto a bolt the other day. What a smith he'd make."

"Nonsense!" declared Ares, as the youngster made a demanding noise and wiggled, indicating that he wanted to be put down. Hephaestus obliged. "He doesn't want to spend his life tinkering with metal and fitting things together. He'll grow up to be a fine warrior. I shall see to his training myself. He can already throw a punch, and he's fearless. My four with Aph were more like frightened kittens at this age," he rolled his eyes a little sadly. "They were terrified of the Bucket Monster." He watched the boy crawl away energetically, the two mechanical dogs shadowing him. "This little one, he is so much more... fun."

"He is, isn't he?" Hephaestus sipped his wine thoughtfully. The two gods watched the small boy look thoughtfully at his spanner, then try to fit it to the tail of one of the dogs. The animal stood patiently, simply avoiding any potential dismantlement by wagging said tail. The youngster giggled again, then crawled over to base of the forge where several bolts stuck out of the bellows mounting, and began to whack at them enthusiastically with his spanner, a huge smile on his face and his green eyes shining with delight.

"Enjoy it while you can," Hephaestus smiled a little sadly, "Aphrodite says that she will send him to his father, with only his human blood. He will live and die as a mortal, with his father's family. In truth, I'll miss him. He's a happy little thing."

"I suppose it's for the best," nodded Ares reluctantly, "But it is a pity." He picked up another spanner, knelt, and assumed a guard. "Have at you, heartless slayer of the Bucket Monster!" he barked.

The boy let out a laugh, and crawled towards the god of war, where he sat awkwardly, and banged his spanner vigorously against the outstretched one.

"He'll do that all day, if you indulge him," grinned Hephaestus.

"Good. A warrior should develop stamina from a young age," Ares commented approvingly. The child laughed, and redoubled his efforts, as the two gods urged him on. Eventually, he tired himself out, then pouted adorably again and held his arms up. Hephaestus picked him up, and they both laughed when the boy dropped his spanner, plunged his hand into the smith's wine cup, then snuggled into the huge arm and sucked on his fingers, sighing contentedly.

"A bit young to join the retinue of Dionysus, I would have thought," chuckled Ares.

"He could probably pass for a nymph," Hephaestus commented thoughtfully. "Look at those lips and those eyelashes."

"He will be handsome," nodded Ares, "Of course, his father must have been, for Aph to dally with him. She can't resist a pretty face."

"What's she doing rolling with you, then?" grinned Hephaestus. Ares extended his middle finger.

They were interrupted by the heavy bang of one of the external doors, and the sound of feet stomping angrily in their direction.

"Roverto Ioannes, I know you are in here!" yelled a voice that did nothing to cow the boy, but made both the gods wince.

"Oh dear," sighed Ares, "We are ambushed."

"Hera's tits, sometimes that woman frightens me," muttered Hephaestus.

A wrathful Aphrodite rounded the shelving, and let out a shriek of horror. "What have you been doing with him?" she demanded, "He is filthy!"

"He slayed the Bucket Monster," replied Ares a little wistfully.

"And performed some vital maintenance on the bellows," added Hephaestus, putting the wiggling child down.

Her expression softened as little Roverto crawled towards her, face beaming. She picked him up. "It is time," she stated, "I think that I shall send you to your father. But not before you have had a bath, young man." He reached up to pat her hair, and laughed.

"Are you absolutely sure about sending him to his mortal family, Aph?" asked Hephaestus a little plaintively.

"I am," she said firmly, "They will need him more than we do."

"I suppose you are right," sighed Ares, ruffling the blonde hair again, and smiling as the boy grabbed at his hand. "Go with my best wishes, young one, to become the fine warrior I know you will. Be brave, and cunning, and fearless."

"He will make a canny smith after the fashion of his own people," stated Hephaestus, tickling the boy under the chin, "Go with my blessing, youngster, learn to be resourceful, and clever, and capable with your hands. After all," he added with a small smile, "You have your father's beautiful conveyance to look after."

Roverto seemed to find their attention hilarious, and let out a shriek of laughter, waving his hands excitedly. Aphrodite left with him, calling for her servants to prepare a bath for the child, because his uncles had made him filthy, again...

"I'll miss him too," sighed Ares, picking up his wine cup again. "Although... we could, you know, visit him. When he's older."

"It would not be right," gruffed Hephaestus, finishing his own wine. "Zeus would not approve."

"Since when do you give a chimera's cock what Zeus thinks?" scoffed Ares.

"The Child of Yahweh who keeps watch for his Father would not appreciate the interference," frowned Hephaestus. "The time of our interfering with mortal concerns is long past, Ares. He will make his way, as a mortal man."

"I suppose you're right," Ares agreed reluctantly. "But maybe we could keep an eye on him, occasionally? Just to make sure he's all right? You've already seen a part of his future, after all."

"He will be all right," Hephaestus assured him. "His father is a Hunter, a very good one. Hades speaks highly of him. But..." he sounded uncertain. "I don't suppose there would be any harm in just checking occasionally."

"Of course not," Aries smiled, refilling his brother's cup, "Just to satisfy ourselves that all is well. Aphrodite would probably like to hear about him, every so often."

"Yeeesssss," agreed Hephaestus slowly, "That would be a good reason.

"We wouldn't interfere, obviously," Aries added hurriedly. "Unless the circumstances were utterly, utterly dire."

"Life or death," nodded Hephaestus.

"Just so," Ares went on. "Otherwise, just looking, occasionally."

They drank more wine. "What else did you see, Heph?" pressed Ares. "When you saw the weavings of the Moirai, the Fates?"

"It wasn't really him," shrugged the smith god, "It was the strands of his father's conveyance, Kaz, that I saw. She was drawn from the earth by my craft. Roverto just happened to be there, in her future."

"Well," mused Ares, "Maybe you could have a look along her strands, and see if he's still there?"

A smile gradually stole across Hephaestus's face. "Well, just a little peek, perhaps," he grinned. "Let me get the fire stoked."

He moved to his forge, and added a good quantity of charcoal, then worked the bellows. The fire burned from the dull red glow of a Hellhound's eyes to fiery red, brilliant orange, blazing yellow, and finally, the searing intensity beyond blistering white hot that can only be found in the heart of a giant star, or the forge of a god. With his largest pair of tongs, he moved the incandescent coals carefully, sorting, sifting, peering into the shimmering embodiment of heat.

"There," he nudged Ares, "Just there. Look..."

They watched ripples of arcing plasma play across the coals. There were images of a sleek black machine, rumbling in contentment and roaring in anger, and glimpses of the lives played out around it...

_A toddler sleeping in the back seat, cuddled up to a large black dog_

_A young boy, barely tall enough to see under the hood, watching his father work_

_A gangly youngster, learning to control it while his father laughed instructions and his uncle in the back seat shrieked in horror_

_A cocky teen, all smiles and hormones as he reached for the willing girl sitting beside him_

_A young man, grimly dropping his father on the back seat and tearing his shirt to wipe away the blood to see the injury_

_A father, with two small boys, one on either side of him, peering into the engine as he worked, as he had once done, with their grandfather_

When they returned to the house, Hephaestus and Ares were laughing heartily about something. In returning Aphrodite's queries, they merely shook their heads, yelled 'Werewolf!' at each other, then began to laugh all over again. She shook her head, and got on with dressing her son in clean clothing.

"The sooner you go to your father, the better," she told him, "Those two are bad influences on you."

A surprised shout interrupted the laughter, and she rolled her eyes. She didn't need to investigate to know what had happened; Hephaestus had dropped one of his atom-powered mice into Ares' wine. He'd been doing it to everybody since he'd got them working, and she knew how startling it could be, to see one of the wretched things paddling around in your wine cup, while Heph smilingly informed you that it would be able to do that for at least the next couple of decades.

"Yes," she told the contentedly gurgling youngster, "It is definitely time. I shall summon Hermes."

She did so, content in the knowledge that Roverto's father and mortal uncle couldn't possibly be as ridiculous as his other uncles in playing such stupid tricks on each other.

* * *

Now, if I can just get Real Life to stop humping my leg for a bit, maybe I can summon the van... (Unfortunately, the Special Bonus Feature Missing Scene for 'The Man Who Spewed Too Much' was lost when the bag containing the data stick it was on bounced off the back of my bike, and a highway maintenance crew thought it was a bomb and summoned the police who disposed of it. I mean, really, okay, I had some gym kit in there, but those shoes were just broken in properly, surely they didn't smell that bad...

Reviews are the Amusing Mechanical Mouse Doing Dogpaddle In The Drink Bought For You By The Winchester Of Your Choice In The Bar Of Life!


	18. BONUS FEATURE: Deleted scene!

...Because I know what the Denizens want. RL has fought me on this one, but better late than never...

* * *

*****SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE: DELETED SCENE!*****

_Generalised scuffling noises from upstairs_

**Bobby:** ? ? ?

_He goes to investigate. Noises are coming from the Winchesters' room. He opens the door._

**Dean:** Give me that! *he grabs for fluffy blue hat*

**Sam:** No! It's mine! *he slaps at Dean's hand*

**Dean:** I deserve at least a sock! *he dives for Sam's feet*

**Sam:** Aaaaaaaaaarghgetoffmeeee! *Dean removes one of his socks* You jerk! *he grabs to get sock back, but grabs Dean's shirt as Dean dodges. It tears*

**Dean:** You bitch! I like this shirt! *In retaliation he reaches out and tears Sam's shirt*

**Bobby: **God's tits! *he closes the door, and scuttles back downstairs, pulling out his phone and making a call*

_Outside, large white van pulls up as Bobby waits anxiously. _

*knock knock knock*

_Bobby rushes to answer the door. The DDD&SSS are assembled on the porch. They sing their jingle._

**DDD&SSS: **Have your Winchesters been feeling sick, and chilly in cold weather?  
Have they been fighting 'til you want to bang their heads together?  
Call DDD&SSS to sort them out, and then  
If you're not wholly satisfied, we'll do it all again.

**Bobby: **Thank goodness you're here. They're up there, arguin' and rasslin' and tearin' each other's clothes off, all over fluffy a hat. It's ridiculous.

**LeighAnnWallace (patting his arm reassuringly):** Never fear, Mr Singer, we are experts in the field of Winchesters having clothing torn off.

**Leahelisabeth:** Although we're usually the ones doing the tearing...

**Georgia:** Mind you, the idea of watching them tear each other's clothes off holds a certain something...

**LeahAnnWallace:** It sounds as though they might be suffering from Hyperhypohyperthermia.

**Bobby:** That sounds terrible! What sort of ghastly disorder is it?

**Leahelisabeth:** It means they're suffering from being totally hot while they're being cold.

_The Denizens all nod authoritatively_

**Steelhorse67 (consulting clipboard):** But we are here to help! We could do our Winter Special Storm, Swarm & Warm Package for you.

**aeicha:** Which involves us storming up there, swarming in and warming them up. *she unrolls a chart with flow diagram*

**captainbartholmew (pointing to chart with laser pointer):** It will stop the bickering, as indicated by this intimate yet tastefully produced diagram of them hugging, also available on calendar, drink coaster, dishcloth and pillow case.

**suze1383:** Although there might be a bit of squealing instead, especially with the chocolate brush, you know, if one of them is at all ticklish.

**Bobby:** Well, if you think you can help, go for it, ladies.

**elf:** Leave it with us, Mr Singer, we guarantee that by the time we've finished, arguing over a blue fluffy hat will be the last thing on their minds.

_The DDD&SSS crew hustle upstairs, and burst into the Winchesters room. Dean and Sam are resplendent in shorts and socks. Sam has custody of the fluffy blue hat and is holding it up at arm's length out of Dean's reach._

**Sam:** It's miiiiiiine!

**Dean:** Give it meeeeeeeee!

**KnightJelly:** Now then, now then, what's all this about? *She frowns authoritatively*

**Sam:** He's trying to steal my hat! *his bottom lip wobbles*

**Dean:** He won't share! *he pouts adorably*

**Sam:** I need my hat, because my hair got trimmed! WAAAAAAAAAH!

**Dean:** You have your stupid sideburns to keep you warm, Sasquatch bitch!

**Sam:** You leave my sideburns alone, you mean jerk!

_They begin to grapple and wrestle for the hat once more._

**moira4eku:** All right, that's enough... We'll give you just twenty minutes to stop doing that.

**Dean:** GIMMEEEEEEE!

**Sam:** MIIIIIIIINE!

**Steelhorse67:** Le sigh. Wrestling Match Break-up Patrol, deploy.

**architaannie, Darla M, Hesta101, ccase13:** Oh, do we have to, they seem to be having fun, they're just adorable when they do this, can't we just let them enjoy themselves, we certainly are, etc.

**Georgia:** They're definitely suffering from hyperhypohyperthermia. There's clearly only one way to treat this.

**aeicha:** Is the custard tub prepared?

**PerminatlyLostInThought: **The temperature has just hit delicious degrees.

**elf:** Are the accoutrements primed?

_anonymouse, Jen013, maybemoey and SARA1988 brandish marshmallows, coloured sprinkles, chocolate sauce and a squirt can of whipped cream respectively_

**captainbartholomew:** To the custard tub!

_They hustle the Winchesters, still wrestling over the hat, down the stairs and out to the van. Splashing, sloshing, sprinkling and squealing are heard over the creaking of the van's suspension. A fluffy blue hat, soggy with custard and covered with sprinkles, comes flying up out through the skylight to land on the porch with a splat._

_In the kitchen_

**Bobby: **You're gonna have to upgrade to a bus, soon, at this rate.

**TheBlueOrleans:** Or at the very least, install composite pneumatic shocks on that van.

**Bobby:** Have you considered some sort of trailer, where you can hose it out afterwards?

**TheBlueOrleans:** I did look at a couple of Winnebagos, but the standard upholstery isn't chocolate resistant...

_At the door_

**Lampito:** Mr Singer? Mr Singer? Are you in there, you fascinating hunk of gruffly rugged yet eclectically engaging manhood? Slight problem here, Mr Singer – somebody's put a line of Brussels Sprouts across the door. I can't cross a line of Brussels Sprouts. Mr Singer?...

_**fin**_

_**srsly**_

* * *

That's definitely the end of this bunny now, so everybody can hustle over to 'Grumpy Old Men' and encourage that loony leporid for a while (in the face of Real Life, it needs all the boosting it can get).

Reviews are the Gallant Gentleman (Or Lady If Your Tastes Run That Way) Of Your Choice Come To Assist You To Cross The Terrifying Line Of Brussels Sprouts On The Floor Of Life!


End file.
